THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


•9*4 


THE  OLD  OAK  TUBE.     Pago  IT.       , 


HAPPY    HOURS; 


OR, 


THE    HOME    STORY-BOOK. 


BT 

MARY  CHERWELL. 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS    FROM    DESIGNS   BY   GILBERT. 


NEW   YORK: 
C.   S.    FRANCIS    &   CO.,     252    BROADWAY. 

BOSTON: 

J.   H.   FRANCIS  &  CO.,  WASHINGTON  STREET. 

1851. 


CONTENTS. 


„  PAGE 

THE  OLD  OAK-TREE         ....,..»..  6 

THE  WHITE  PIGEON 21 

THE  SCHOOLFELLOWS    .                         45 

FREDERICK  SEDLEY'S  HOLIDAYS  ...                ...  73 

COUSIN  JOHN'S  FIRST  STORY :— HERO 86 

COUSIN  JOHN'S  SECOND  STORY :— FLUSH  AND  ROVER          .  113 

THE  REVENGEFUL  INDIAN            138 

EMILY  MAYNARD 163 

HENRY  MORTON 171 

AGNES  AND  HER  PETS      ...              - 177 

THE  SISTERS 188 


4.83888 

LIBRARY 


HAPPY    HOURS; 

THE  HOME  STORY-BOOK. 


THE  OLD  OAK-TREE. 


IT  was  in  the  first  month  of  the  year, 
and  on  the  first  day  of  that  month — New- 
year's  day — that  two  little  boys,  George 

and  Edward  Howard,  were  seen  wending: 

^^-     ' 

their  way  through  one  OT  the  quiet  lanes 
in  the    neighbourhood    of  Cranford.     It 
was  one  of  those  bright  joyous  mornings 
known  only  at  that  season  of  the  year. 
The  air  was  clear  and  bracing;    the 


6  THE   OLD   OAK-TREE. 

branches  of  an  avenue  of  trees,  inter- 
woven overhead,  and  covered  with  white 
rime,  appeared  like  a  Toof  of  lace  work ; 
here  and  there,  in  the  hollows  of  the  road, 
were  seen  pools  of  frozen  water,  which, 
a  stray  gleam  of  sunshine  would  cause 
to  shine  like  mirrors ;  while  the  white 
frost,  with  which  the  grass  was  clad, 
glistened  with  the  brilliancy  of  countless 
gems.  The  two  boys  I  have  mentioned 
cheerfully  pursued  their  way ;  their  shrill 
voices  and  merry  laughter  ringing  again 
through  the  light  morning  air.  Edward, 
who  was  by  one  year  the  younger  of  the 
two,  was  carrying  a  parcel,  carefully 
packed  in  brown  paper,  and  his  brother 
George  was  jumping  nimbly  backward 
and  forward  over  the  ditches  which  skirted 


THE   OLD    OAK-TREE.  7 

the  road :  or  sliding  on  any  pieces  of  ice 
wmcn  fell  in  his  way,  till  his  face  glowed 
with  health  and  exercise. 

"  Ah !  I  wish  I  were  as  warm  as  you 
are.  George/'  cried  Edward ;  "  I  declare 
my  fingers  are  quite  cold  with  carrying 
this  parcel.  I  wonder  why  Uncle  Philip 
wished  us  particularly  to  bring  it" 

"  Well  if  you  are  cold  Edward,"  said 
his  brother,  "  why  not  run  about  as  I  do. 
See,  here  is  a  capital  slide  just  before 
us ;  put  the  parcel  down  for  a  moment, 
and  take  a  run  with  me.' 

"  No,  it  is  not  worth  while  to  stop 
now,"  said  Edward, , "  for  you  know  you 
must  carry  the  parcel  half  the  distance. 
That  old  oak-tree  is  just  halfway  between 
our  house  and  Uncle  Philip's :  when 


8  THE  OLD   OAK-TREE. 

we  reach  that  I  shall  have  done  my 
portion." 

"  I  mean  to  carry  it  half  way,  and  only 
half  way,"  returned  George ;  "  and  I  am 
certain  that  that  tree  is  not  the  place  ; 
for  you  know  very  well,  Edward,  that 
Thomas  the  gardener  told  us  the  other 
day  he  had  measured  the  distance,  and 
the  half  mile  was  ten  yards  on  the  other 
side  of  the  oak." 

"I  don't  care  what  Thomas  fancied," 
cried  Edward ;  "  I  know  that  every  one 
else  says  the  tree  is  half  way,  and  I  shall 
carry  the  parcel  there  and  no  further." 

At  the  beginning  of  this  conversation, 
George  had  been  on  the  point  of  offering 
to  carry  the  parcel  the  remainder  of  the 
distance ;  but,  no  sooner  did  his  brother 


THE   OLD    OAK-TREE. 


tell  him  that  he  expected  him  to  carry  it 
half  way,  than  he  obstinately  resolved  not 
to  do  so ;  merely,  as  he  said,  because  he 
would  not  be  dictated  to  by  a  younger 
brother.  Edward,  feeling  convinced 
that  he  had  done  his  share,  determined, 
with  equal  obstinacy,  not  to  yield  the 
point. 

I  am  afraid  from  what  has  been  said 
about  the  two  brothers,  that  my  young 
readers  will  fancy  them  to  have  been  very 
obstinate,  quarrelsome  boys,  but  such  was 
not  generally  the  case.  They  were  good- 
tempered  and  obliging  to  all  their  friends, 
kind  to  their  poorer  neighbours,  and,  ex- 
cept on  one  point,  seldom  disagreed  with 
one  another ;  but  each  had  a  foolish  pride 
about  being  directed  to  do  anything  by 


10  ii IE   OLD   OAK-TREE. 

the  other;  and  when  that  feeling  hap- 
pened to  be  aroused,  you  could  not  have 
found  two  more  obstinate  little  fellows  in 
the  whole  village  of  Cranford.  Their 
Uncle  had,  on  the  morning  to  which  this 
tale  refers,  come  to  pass  the  day  with 
their  father ;  and  had  asked  his  nephews 
to  go  to  the  Grange,  which  wras  the  name 
of  his  residence,  and  bring  him  a  parcel, 
which  he  expected  would  be  left  there  by 
the  coach :  the  boys,  who  always  delighted 
to  oblige  their  Uncle  in  any  way,  had 
cheerfully  set  out  on  their  errand.  Just 
before  they  reached  the  Grange,  the 
coachman  had  left  the  parcel,  and  with 
it  they  started,  on  their  return  home — 
we  have  seen  with  what  success. 

Arrived  at  the  Oak-tree,  Edward  as- 


THE   OLD   OAK-TREE.  11 

serted  that  he  had  fulfilled  his  share  of  the 
distance ;  set  down  his  load,  and  refused 
to  carry  it  a  step  further. 

"  Well,  a  nice  tale  you  will  have  to  tell 
Uncle  Philip  when  you  reach  home/'  said 
George ;  "  for  I  declare  I  will  not  touch 
the  parcel  till  you  have  carried  it  ten 
yards  further."  "  I  shall  tell  my  Uncle  I 
have  done  my  duty/'  said  Edward ;  "  I 
do  not  intend  to  touch  it  again." 

"Neither  will  I,"  cried  George. 

And  at  length  off  they  walked,  actually 
leaving  their  Uncle's  property  under  the 
tree,  to  any  chance  that  might  await  it. 
After  walking  a  few  paces  in  silence, 
George  began  to  feel  rather  ashamed  of 
the  part  he  had  been  taking,  and  had  his 
brother  shown  any  concession,  he  would 


12  THE   OLD   OAK-TREE. 

willingly  have  turned  back.  Nearly  the 
same  thoughts  were  passing  through  Ed- 
ward's mind.  "  After  all,"  he  thought,  "  it 
was  only  ten  yards,  and  I  might  as  well 
have  given  up :  I  wrould  go  back  now 
only  I  do  not  like  to  seem  to  yield  first:' 
But  as  they  walked  on  in  silence,  of  course 
neither  knew  the  other's  thoughts,  and 
in  a  few  minutes  more  they  stood  empty- 
handed  before  their  Uncle.  "  Well,  my 
dear  boys,"  said  Uncle  Philip,  looking  up 
from  the  newspaper  he  was  reading,  "  now 
W7hat  success,  what  news  of  the  parcel  ? 
I  trust  the  coachman  has  not  disappointed 
me." 

"  N — n — o,''  stammered  George,  "  it 
came  by  the  coach." 

"  Ah !  that's  right ;  I  am  glad  it  is  come 


THE   OLD   OAK-TREE.  13 

but  bring  it  here,  then.  Why — Eh? 
where  have  you  put  it  ?" 

George  and  Edward  glanced  at  one 
another ;  then  held  down  their  heads,  and 
looked  as  confused  and  foolish  as  possible; 
but  neither  of  them  spoke. 

Uncle  Philip  was  puzzled :  "  Perhaps 
they  did  not  care  to  oblige  me,"  he 
thought.  "  Why,  George — Edward !"  he 
said,  looking  hurt  and  offended,  "  if  I  had 
known  that  you  considered  it  too  much 
trouble  to  execute  a  little  commission  for 
me,  I  would  not  have  asked." — "  Oh  no, 
uncle,  no,  indeed,  we  did  not  think  it  a 
trouble :  we  are  always  glad  to  do  any- 
thing to  please  you;  but — but" — they 
could  get  no  further:  neither  wished  to 
complain  of  the  other,  for  each  knew  he 


14  THE  OLD   OAK-TREE. 

had  been  behaving  very  foolishly.  Their 
father  at  this  moment  entered  the  room, 
and  knowing  his  sous'  failings,  had  very 
little  difficulty  in  discovering  how  mat- 
ters stood. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  find/'  said  Mr.  Howard 
seriously,  "that  notwithstanding  all  I 
have  said  to  you  on  the  subject,  you  still 
continue  to  indulge  in  such  feelings.  Oil 
you  particularly  as  the  elder,  George,  I 
had  hoped  my  advice  would  have  had 
more  effect," — "  Oh  indeed  it  was  my 
fault  as  much  as  George's,"  said  Edward. 
— "  No,  no,"  cried  George,  "  I  was  most 
to  blame ;  I  feel  I  have  been  very  fool- 
ish and  very  obstinate:  I  will  run  back 
directly  and  fetch  the  parcel." — "  No, 
George,"  said  Mr.  Howard,  "your  uncle 


THE   OLD   OAK-TREE.  15 

will  not  trouble  you  again ;  with  his  per- 
mission I  will  send  a  messenger,  who  I 
doubt  not  will  prove  more  trustworthy," 
He  then  rang  the  bell,  and  after  describ- 
ing the  spot  in  which  he  would  find  it, 
desired  the  servant  to  go  in  quest  of  the 
forsaken  parcel.  John  found  it  exactly  as 
the  boys  had  left  it,  and  soon  returning 
placed  it  before  uncle  Philip ;  who  in  the 
mean  time  had  been  conversing  apart 
with  Mr.  Howard.  "  You  leave  the  matter 
in  my  hands  then,"  said  the  latter,  as  they 
returned  to  the  boys.  The  fact  was.  Uncle 
Philip  was  very  fond  of  his  nephews, 
and  had  intended  to  surprise  them  by 
a*  New-year's  gift ;  and  though  at  first 
vexed  at  what  he  justly  thought  not  only 
obstinacy  but  want  of  proper  attention 


16  THE  OLD   OAK-TREE. 

and  respect  to  himself,  yet  now  that  he 
saw  how  foolish  and  mortified  they  looked, 
he  almost  thought  them  already  suffi- 
ciently punished.  But  in  compliance  with 
a  wish  their  father  had  expressed,  he 
agreed  to  let  him  proceed  in  the  affair  as 
he  thought  best. 

Mr.  Howard  took  a  knife,  cut  the 
strings  of  the  parcel,  removed  the  outer 
covering,  and  drew  forth  two  small 
packages;  on  the  first  was  written — 
"Master  George  Howard;'  and  on  the 
second — "  Master  Edward  Howard,  with 
their  Uncle  Philip's  love."  "  These,"  said 
their  father,  "  your  uncle  had  kindly  in- 
tended as  presents  to  you  both."  Tffe 
boys  looked  up,  Mr.  Howard  removed 
the  paper  which  covered  them,  and  there 


THE  OLD  OAK-TREE>  17 

stooa  two  of  the  neatest  little  desks  in 
the  world !  Uncle  Philip  fidgeted  about, 
blew  his  nose,  placed  his  hands  under  his 
coat-tails,  and  walked  to  the  window.  I 
really  think  he  longed  to  interfere ;  he 
seemed  vexed  that  what  he  had  in- 
tended as  a  pleasant  surprise  for  his 
nephewrs,  should  through  their  ill  conduct 
have  been  the  cause  of  all  the  present 
disquietude.  "  They  were,  I  say,  intend 
ed  for  you,"  continued  Mr.  Howard; 
"but,  as  you  have  allowed  your  foolish 
pride  so  far  to  get  possession  of  you,  as 
not  only  to  cause  you  to  disagree,  but 
also  to  commit  a  breach  of  trust,  (for 
though  the  two  desks  were  intended  for 
you,  yet  at  the  time  you  could  not  have 
known  what  property  of  your  uncle's  you 
2 


18  THE   OLD   OAK-TREE. 

\vere  leaving  to  the  chance  of  being  lost:) 
I  have  resolved" — "Yes,  yes,  there — 
there — that  will  do,  Papa,''  interrupted 
Uncle  Philip,  "  they  will  be  good  boys  in 
future ;  they  will  not  do  the  same  again." 
"  It  is  to  prevent  such  a  repetition,  my 
dear  brother,"  said  Mr.  Howard,  "  that  I 
must  now  stand  in  the  way  of  your  kind 
intentions.  Having  proved  yourselves/7 
he  said,  again  addressing  George  and 
Edward,  "  unworthy  of  your  uncle's 
kindness,  I  must  beg  that  he  will  take 
back  with  him  the  desks  which  he  so 
kindly  designed  for  you.  He  will  no 
doubt  find  some,  amongst  his  young 
friends,  who  will  be  glad  to  accept  them-; 
and  who,  instead  of  quarrelling  as  to 
which  can  do  least,  will  rather  strive 


THE  OLD   OAK-TREE.  19 

which  can  do  most,  to  oblige  the  other." 
"  Oh !  I  really  think  now  you  are  too 
hard  upon  them,"  whispered  Uncle  Philip; 
"remember,  young  people  will  be  young 
people,  boys  will  be  boys." 

"But  we  must  strive  to  make  them 
good  boys,"  said  Mr.  Howard.  "  No,  my 
dear  brother!  I  an  sorry  that  my  sons 
have  not  proved  themselves  deserving  of 
your  kindness.  You  will  oblige  me  by 
taking  back  the  desks:  we  will  say  nothing 
further  on  the  subject" 

I  shall  not  tell  my  readers  whether  this 
lesson  made  a  proper  impression  on 
George  and  Edward ;  I  shall  leave  them 
to  guess.  Thus  much  however  I  will  say: 
About  six  months  after  the  occurrence  of 
the  events  I  have  just  related,  was  Uncle 


20  THE  OLD  OAK-TREE. 

Philip's  birthday.  Mr.  Howard  and  his 
sons  passed  the  day  with  him,  and  a  very 
merry  day  they  made  of  it ;  and  when  the 
boys  took  their  departure  for  the  night, 
each  was  observed  to  carry  under  his  arm 
a  parcel,  about  half  the  size  of  that  which 
they  had  left  six  months  before,  beneath 
the  Old  Oak-Tree. 


THE   WHITE  PIGEON. 


IN  some  remote  part  of  Ireland  there 
formerly  stood  a  fine  old  castle,  in  which 
castle  dwelt  a  widow  lady,  the  mother  of 
an  only  son.  I  have  forgotten  the  lady's 
name,  so  will  call  her  Lady  O'N.;  but  the 
little  boy's,  I  remember  well,  was  Des- 
mond. 

Lady  O'N.  was  doatingly  fond  of  her 
little  boy ;  but  in  spite  of  all  her  affection, 
she  did  not  quite  understand  the  right 
method  of  making  him  happy.  It  is  true 
she  surrounded  him  With  every  indulgence 


: 


22  THE   WHITE   PIGEON. 

in  her  power  to  procure ;  humoured  all  his 
childish  caprices ;  and  could  not  endure 
that  any  one  should  for  a  moment  oppose 
him.  All  the  servants  in  the  castle  were 
expected  to  consult  the  wishes  and  attend 
to  the  orders  of  little  Master  Desmond, 
with  as  much  deference  as  if  he  had  been 
a  sensible  considerate  man,  instead  of  a 
thoughtless  troublesome  child.  His  tem- 
per, as  you  may  suppose,  was  very  much 
spoilt  by  all  this  indulgence  and  atten- 
tion; indeed,  by  the  time  he  was  six 
years  of  age,  he  had  grown  so  self-willed 
and  overbearing,  he  could  not  put  up 
with  the  slightest  contradiction  or  disap- 
pointment 

Now,  in  a  rude    hut,  distant  about  a 
mile  from  the    castle,  dwelt  a  poor  old 


THE  WHITE   PIGEON.  23 

man  who  had  known  many  sorrows.  His 
three  sons  had  fallen  in  battle,  and  a 
grand-daughter,  the  child  of  his  last  sur- 
viving son,  who,  he  had  hoped,  would 
have  been  spared  to  be  the  joy  and  con- 
solation of  his  old  age,  had  also  been 
taken  from  him  within  a  year  after  her 
fathers  death. 

The  poor  old  man  was  very  sad  and 
melancholy,  and  the  only  thing  which 
now  seemed  to  give  him  pleasure,  was  to 
feed  and  pet  a  gentle  white  pigeon  which 
had  belonged  to  his  poor  Norah. 

The  lady  at  the  castle,  who  was  a  gen- 
tle and  charitable  dame,  pitying  the  soli- 
tary old  man,  had  often  called  to  see  his 
little  grand-daughter  when  she  lay  ill, 
and  had  sent  delicacies  from  the  castle  for 


24  THE   WHITE  PIGEON. 

the  sick  child,  which  he  could  not  have 
afforded  to  purchase.  On  one  of  her  visits 
to  the  lone  hut,  she  had  taken  her  little 
son  Desmond  with  her,  and  the  old  man, 
desirous  to  amuse  the  little  boy  as  well  as 
he  was  able,  had  taken  him  round  his 
little  garden,  in  which  he  cultivated  a 
few  roots  and  herbs ;  and,  amongst  other 
things,  had  shown  him  poor  Norah's 
pretty  favourite.  It  was  a  few  days  after 
that  visit  that  the  little  girl  died. 

Unfortunately  for  the  good  old  man,  it 
happened,  about  the  same  time,  that 
young  Master  Desmond,  in  spite  of  the 
constant  efforts  of  all  in  the  castle  to 
amuse  and  keep  him  in  good-humour, 
was  at  more  than  usual  loss  for  amuse- 
ment. Rain  fell  almost  incessantly  for 


THE  WHITE  PIGEON.    Page  24. 


THE    WHITE   PIGEON.  25 

several  days,  and  he  was  not  able  to  enjoy 
any  of  his  out-of-door  pleasures.  He 
could  not  have  a  ramble  in  the  woods,  or 
a  gallop  on  his  own  little  black  pony, 
neither  could  he  go  out  on  the  beautiful 
lake  which  extended  in  front  of  the 
castle,  where  his  mama  kept  a  little  boat 
purposely  for  his  use ;  and  in  fine  weather 
he  was  rowed  about  on  the  clear  bright 
water  whenever  he  liked. 

"  What  can  we  do,  Bridget,  to  amuse 
the  dear  boy  this  dull  morning  ? '  said 
Lady  ON.  on  one  of  these  rainy  days,  to 
a  young  woman  who  was  working  with 
her  at  an  embroidery  frame. 

Mistress  Bridget  suggested,  first  one 
thing  and  then  another — nothing,  how- 
ever, that  Desmond  was  particularly  dis- 


26  THE    WHITE  PIGEON. 

posed  to  do  or  be  pleased  \vith.  But  'as 
his  mother  continued  to  talk  about  his 
little  important  sel£  he  sat  down  on  a 
cushion  at  her  feet,  and,  leaning  his  lace 
on  both  his  hands,  looked  very  thought- 
ful for  a  minute  or  two.  If  a  book  had 
been  on  his  knee  you  would  have  fancied 
he  was  learning  his  lesson  very  atten- 
tively, but  Desmond,  though  he  lived  in 
a  splendid  mansion,  and  was  dressed  and 
tended  like  a  little  prince,  was  as  ignorant 
as  any  of  the  rough-looking  little  children 
who  played  barefoot  about  the  doors  of 
the  peasants'  huts :  he  did  not  even  know 
his  letters.  There  were  not  to  be  sure, 
so  many  pretty  little  books  in  those  days 
as  there  are  now,  to  tempt  little  boys  and 
girls  to  study,  and  reward  them  for  the 


THE    WHITE    PIGEON.  27 

pains  they  take  in  learning'  to  read.  But 
what,  then,  was  passing  in  Desmond's 
mind  that  he  leant  his  head  on  his  hand, 
and  looked  so  grave  ?  Perhaps  he  was 
thinking  what  he  could  do  to  give  plea- 
sure to  his  kind  mama,  who  loved  him  so 
dearly.  No:  little  Desmond  was  thinking 
only  of  himself.  Presently  he  jumped  up, 
and,  with  a  hright  smile  on  his  face,  which* 
delighted  his  mama  and  made  her  clasp 
him  in  her  arms  and  kiss  him  fondly,  he 
cried,  "Oh  I  have  thought  of  what  I  should 
like  to  amuse  me."  He  fancied  he  had  done 
something  very  clever  in  finding  this  out 
for  himself.  "I  should  like  the  pretty 
white  pigeon,'7  he  continued,  "  mama,  do 
you  remember,  that  the  old  man  showed 
me,  the  day  you  took  me  with  you  to  his 


28  THE   WHITE   P1GEOX 

hut  ?"  "  Yes,  my  darling,"  said  his  mo- 
ther, "and  I  dare  say  the  poor  old  m:ui 
will  be  very  willing"  to  sell  it.  I  will 
to  him  this  morning ;  it  will  be  a  chang- 
ing pet  for  you.  And  now  run  and  ;,sk 
Michael  to  look  out  a  nice  little  house 
for  the  pretty  bird  to  roost  in."  Oft  ran 
little  Desmond,  in  high  glee,  to  find  Mi- 
chael, and  Lady  O'N.  immediately  sum- 
moned one  of  her  servants,  and  putting 
money  in  his  hand,  desired  him  to  go  to 
the  hut  of  the  old  peasant  and  give  him 
whatever  he  asked  for  his  white  pigeon, 
as  Master  Desmond  wished  to  possess  it. 
The  servant  accordingly  set  off,  and, 
finding  the  old  man  in  his  hut,  told  him 
on  what  errand  he  had  come.  To  his 
surprise,  the  old  man  steadily  refused  to 


THE    WHITE   PIGEON.  29 

part  with  bis  bird.  The  servant,  knowing 
how  serious  a  matter  it  was  to  disappoint 
Master  Desmond  of  anything  to  which 
he  took  a  fancy,  offered  him  a  sum  more 
than  treble  the  value  of  the  pigeon.  But 
the  old  man  sadly  replied  "That,  and 
ten  times  more,  would  not  buy  this  poor 
bird  of  me.  I  do  not  want  gold ;  this  hut 
will  shelter  me  while  I  live;  but  the 
pigeon  my  poor  Norah  loved,  and  that 
used  to  feed  from  her  hand,  I  cannot  part 
with." 

The  servant  saw  that  the  old  man  was 
in  earnest,  and  that  it  would  be  in  vain 
to  urge  him  further.  He  therefore  went 
back  to  the  castle  to  tell  his  lady  of  his 
ill  success. 

Lady    O'N.    was   very    much    disap- 


30  THE   WHITE   PIGEON. 

pointed  to  see  him  return  empty-handed  ; 
but  when  she  heard  how  much  the  poor 
old  man  valued  his'pigeon.  she  felt  that 
it  would  be  quite  cruel  to  wish  any  longer 
to  deprive  him  of  it.  The  next  thing  to 
be  done  was  to  break  the  news  to  little 
Desmond.  He  had  heard  that  the  ser- 
vant was  come  back,  who  had  been  sent 
to  the  old  man's  dwelling,  and  now  came 
running  into  the  room,  crying  eagerly, 
"  Where  is  my  pigeon  ? — O  let  me  see  my 
pigeon  !" 

"  Come  to  me,  my  love,"  said  Lady 
O'N. ;  "come  and  listen  to  a  sorrowful 
little  story  I  have  to  tell  you.  When 
you  have  heard  it,  I  am  sure  you  will  not 
wish  any  longer  for  the  poor  old  man's 
bird." 


THE    WHITE   PIGEON.  31 

"I  do  not  want  to  hear  a  story!"  cried 
the  spoilt  child ;  and  burst  out  a  crying*, 
as  he  was  accustomed  to  do  whenever  he 
could  not  get  what  he  wished.  "  I  do  not 
care  about  anything  if  I  cannot  have  the 
white  pigeon/' 

It  was  of  no  use  that  his  mama  tried 
to  make  him  feel  pity,  by  talking  to  him 
about  the  grief  of  the  poor  old  man,  and 
explaining  to  turn  why  he  could  not  part 
with  his  grand-daughter's  favourite  pet 
Desmond  would  not  attend  to  any  thing 
she  said,  but  kept  crying  and  sobbing, 
and  insisting  on  the  pigeon  being 
got  for  him.  This  could  not  be  done; 
but  Lady  O'N.,  lamenting  his  disap- 
pointment, tried  to  divert  him  in  every 
way  she  could  think  of  It  was  all  in 


32 

of  the  habit 

OA'  ij^  pom  tine  lit,  that  nothing 

they  Vi  ere  able  to  give  or  promise  him 
could  make  him  forget  the  pretty  white 
pigeon  he  had  so  much  set  his  mind  on 
having.  When  at  length  his  passion  was 
exhausted  and  he  could  not  cry  any  more, 
he  sat  down  sullenly  in  a  corner,  and 
would  not  speak  or  take  notice  of  any- 
body. At  dinner-time  much  to  the  con- 
cern of  his  ma  inn,  he  would  not  eat  raiy- 
;  in-  short,  lie  c  I  in  this 

comfortless  humour  the  rest  of  the  clay, 
and  when  evening  came,  after  the  manner 
;  >rro.wing  children,  sobbed  himself  to 
Lady  ON.  hoped  he  would 
think  less  about  it  on  the  morrow :  but, 
alas!  he  arose  the  next  morning  in  the 


THE    WHITE    PIGEON.  33 

same  disconsolate  mood.  He  would  not 
play;  lie  would  not  smile;  he  would  not 
speak.  Lady  ON.  felt  quite  unhappy ; 
she  feared  he  would  fret  himself  into  a 
fever,  and  began  to  reproach  herself  for 
having  indulged  her  little  boy  so  foolishly. 
Slie  could  not,  however,  bear  the  thoughts 
of  his  making  himself  ill,  and,  since  no- 
thing but  the  possession  of  the  pretty 
white  pigeon  W7ould  pacify  him,  she 
resolved  to  go  herself  to  the  hut  of  the 
old  peasant,  and  see  what  could  be  done 
about  the  matter. 

Without  telling  Desmond  of  her  in- 
tention, for  fear  of  another  disappoint- 
ment, she  set  oil  On  reaching  the  old 
man's  hut,  she  found  him  engaged  in 
supplying  his  favourite  with  a  cup  of 
3 


34  THE    \VlilTL:   PIGLOX. 

fresh  water.  When  he  saw  the  lady, 
however,  he  came  forward  respectfully, 
though  with  his  usually  sad  aspect,  to 
greet  her.  With  much  reluctance  she 
made  him  acquainted  with  the  object  of 
her  visit;  telling  him  how  inconsolable 
her  little  boy  was,  because  he  had  not 
been  able  to  obtain  the  pretty  white 
pigeon  he  had  once  seen  at  that  spot,  and 
how  much  she  feared  that  fretting  after 
it  would  make  him  ill. 

The  poor  old  man  now  feit  very  much 
perplexed.  He  would  not  have  sold  his 
favourite  at  any  price :  but,  calling  to 
remembrance  the  good  lady's  kindness 
to  his  grand-daughter,  he  felt  it  would 
be  ungrateful  to  refuse  her  what  she 
thought  necessary  for  her  child's  comfort 


THE   WHITE   PIGEON.  35 

So,  after  keeping  silence  for  a  moment  or 
two,  he  replied,  in  a  sorrowful  tone,  "  You 
shall  have  the  pigeon,  good  Madam,  since 
Master  Desmond  has  so  much  set  his 
heart  on  it."  The  old  man  spoke  almost 
with  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  Lady  O'N., 
who  saw  how  great  a  trial  it  was  for  him 
to  part  with  his  bird,  felt  quite  ashamed 
of  her  little  boy's  selfishness.  She  assured 
him,  however,  that  Desmond  would  take 
great  care  of  the  pretty  pigeon  when  it 
was  in  his  possession,  and,  should  he  grow 
tired  of  it,  which,  in  less  than  a  month, 
might  very  likely  be  the  case,  she  would 
return  it  in  safety  to  its  old  abode. 
Then,  thanking  the  old  man  for  the 
sacrifice  he  made  for  the  sake  of  her 
little  son,  she  left  the  hut,  after  the  old 


S6  THE    WHITE    PIGEON. 

man  had  promised  to  bring  the  pigeon 
himself  to  the  castle  in  the  course  of  an 
hour  or  two. 

Little  Desmond,  who  had  never  waited 
so  long  and  so  hopelessly  for  anything 
he  wanted  before,  was  almost  wild  with 
joy  when,  on  Lady  O'N/'s  return  home, 
she  informed  him  that  the  pretty  white 
pigeon  would  soon  be  his  own.  Even 
his  mama  almost  forgot  the  sadness  of 
the  old  man,  and  the  selfishness  of  the 
child,  in  her  delight  at  seeing  the  rosy 
colour  return  to  his  cheeks,  and  happy 
smiles  again  brightening  his-face. 

"  And  when  will  it  be  here,  dear 
mama  ?''  cried  Desmond,  as  he  clasped 
his  arms  round  his  mother's  neck. 

"Not   till   the    afternoon,  I  dare    say, 


THE    WHITE   PIGEON.  37 

love,"  said  Lady  O'N.,  for  she  thought 
of  the  reluctance  with  which  the  poor 
old  man  would  doubtlessly  set  out  on  his 
errand. 

But  it  was  no  longer  a  difficult  matter 
to  keep  little  Desmond  in  good  humour; 
and  joyous  and  happy  in  the  prospect  of 
having  his  wish  gratified,  we  will  leave 
him  for  a  little  time  and  go  back  to  the 
humble  dwelling  of  the  poor  peasant. 

The  good  old  man,  though  it  was  such 
grief  to  him  to  part  with  his  bird,  had  no 
thought  of  delaying  the  fulfilment  of  his 
promise  ;  but  as  soon  as  the  lady  had  left 
the  hut,  prepared  to  carry  his  treasure  to 
its  new  home. 

The  pretty  pigeon,  ignorant  of  all  that 
was  to  befal  it,  was  fluttering  gaily  about 


38  THE   WHITE   PIGEON. 

its  perch,  its  white  wings  gleaming  in  the 
sunshine;  hut  when  the  old  man  came 
near,  it  flew  down,  and  alighted  on  his 
out-stretched  hand.  Very  gently,  he 
put  the  tame  little  bird  into  a  small 
wicker-basket,  and  carefully  tied  clown 
the  lid;  then,  with  his  oaken-staff  in 
one  hand,  and  imprisoned  pet  in  the 
other,  took  his  way  forthwith  to  the 
castle. 

When  he  arrived  there,  the  porter, 
\vho  usually  opened  the  outer-gate,  hap- 
pened to  be  out  of  the  way ;  but  a  stupid- 
looking  boy  came  forward  to  ask  what  he 
wanted. 

This  boy,  whose  name  was  Michael, 
could  seldom  deliver  any  order  or  direc- 
tion in  the  words  he  received  it;  or 


THE    WHITE   PIGEON.  39 

]  should  rather  say.  he  rarely  compre- 
hended the  purport  of  what  was  said  to 
him ;  and,  in  repeating"  a  message,  gene- 
rally left  out,  or  added  something,  so  as 
to  completely  alter  its  sense.  His  want 
of  understanding  had  been  the  cause  of 
so  many  droll  mistakes,  that  it  was  some- 
times suspected  that  there  was  some 
lurking  love  of  mischief  joined  to  his 
d ulness  and  stupidity.  However  this 
might  be,  it  was  the  old  man's  ill-luck  to 
give  the  basket,  containing  his  precious 
pigeon,  into  the  hands  of  this  urchin. 
He  left  it  with  a  simple  message,  saying, 
he  had  brought  the  bird  Master  Des- 
mond so  longed  for,  and  begged  Michael 
to  carry  it  carefully  and  present  it  to  him 
immediately.  The  boy  promised  to  do 


40  THE   WHITE   PIGEON. 

so;  and  the  old  man  stood  for  a  moment 
gazing  mournfully  at  his  treasure,  as 
Michael  bore  it  away.  He  then  turned 
to  retrace  his  steps  homeward,  uncon- 
scious as  the  poor  bird  itself  of  the  fate 
that  awaited  it  within  the  castle. 

The  old  man  had  no  sooner  departed, 
than  the  stupid  boy  hurried  to  the  castle 
kitchen  with  the  basket,  and  opening  the 
lid,  said,  "  See,  here  is  a  fine  plump  little 
pigeon,  which  is  to  be  dressed  immedi- 
ately for  Master  Desmond's  dinner.  He 
was  crying  for  one  all  day  yesterday,  and 
the  old  man  who  brought  this  here,  said 
my  lady  ordered  it  herself/ 

The  cook  looked  with  compassion  at 
the  poor  little  white  pigeon,  which  lay  at 
the  bottom  of  the  basket,  very  frightened 


THE    WHITE    PIGEON.  41 

at  the  strange  laces  that  were  peering 
in  on  it,  and  said,  ""it  was  a  thousand 
pities  to  kill  such  a  pretty  gentle  bird; 
but,  to  be  sure,  Master  Desmond  must 
have  everything  he  wanted." 

That  day  little  Desmond  scarcely  cared 
to  obey  the  summons  to  dinner.  He 
was  so  impatient  to  see  the  pretty  white 
pigeon,  wliich  his  mama  was  promising 
would  arrive  every  moment,  that  he  could 
think  of  nothing  else.  Poor  bird!  it 
arrived  at  last  in  a  very  different  state 
from  what  he  expected.  The  little, 
living,  fluttering  pigeon,  which  Desmond 
had  so  much  wished  to  possess,  and  the 
old  man  had  parted  with  so  reluctantly, 
neither  of  them  ever  saw  again. 

"  What   dainty  have    we    here  ?"  said 


42  THE    WHITE 

Lady  Q'N,  aft  a  small  silver  dish  was  placed 
before  Desmon  1 ;  in  the  centre  of  which 
appeared  a  little  bird  delicately  dressed. 

"  It  is  the  pigeon,  Madam,"  said  the 
servant  in  reply.  Desmond  opened  his 
eyes  very  wide,  and  looked  in  great 
amazement,  first  at  the  dish  before  him, 
and  then  at  his  mother. 

"  The  pigeon !  what  pigeon  <"  cried 
Lady  O'N.,  hastily;  dreading  that  some 
mistake  had  occurred. 

The  servant  explained,  that  an  old  man, 
about  two  hours  before,  had  brought  a 
pretty  little  white  pigeon  to  the  castle, 
which,  he  snid.  Master  Desmond  was  to 
have  as  ^uon  as  possible ;  and  the  cook, 
accordingly,  had  dressed  it  immediately, 
in  great  haste. 


THE    WHITE   PIGEON.  43 

"  O,  Desmond,"  cried  Lady  O'N.,  re- 
proachfully, "It  is  the  old  man's  bird. 
O,  what  grief  he  will  be  in  when  he  hears 
of  the  fate  of  his  poor  little  pet.  If  you 
had  not  so  selfishly  wished  to  deprive 
him  of  his  treasure,  the  pretty  pigeon 
would  now  be  fluttering  on  its  perch,  as 
gaily  as  it  was  this  morning,  when  I 
begged  him  for  your  sake,  to  let  me 
have  it.'' 

Little  Desmond  began  to  cry  very 
much,  partly  for  his  own  disappointment, 
but  partly  also  for  the  old  man,  and 
partly  because  his  mama  had  never  spo- 
ken to  him  in  a  tone  of  so  much  displea- 
sure before. 

I  never  heard  what  the  poor  old  man 
said,  or  how  much  grieved  he  appeared 


44  THE   WHITE   PIGEON. 

when  he  was  told  of  the  fate  of  his 
pigeon.  One  good,  however,  resulted 
from  Michael's  unfortunate  mistake. 
Lady  O'N.  resolved  to  teach  her  little 
boy  to  consider  the  feelings  of  others 
more  than  she  had  hitherto  done ;  and 
Desmond,  I  am  happy  to  say,  became,  in 
a  little  time,  a  more  amiable,  as  well  as  a 
happier  boy 


THE   SCHOOLFELLOWS. 


ARMYTAGE  HOUSE  was  a  large,  old- 
fashioned,  Gothic  building;  over  which 
the  ivy  grew  with  such  luxuriance,  that 
its  small  windows  were  rendered  smaller 
still,  so  deeply  were  they  embedded  in 
their  verdant  mantle.  In  front  of  the 
house  was  a  neatly  laid-out  garden, 
where  there  were  none  of  your  fanciful 
fountains  or  mimic  heaps  of  rock-work, 
which,  by  their  presumptuous  imitation 
of  nature,  only  serve  to  remind  us  of  their 
insignificance.  No,  there  was  nothing  of 


46  THE    SCHOOLFELLOWS. 

the  kind  in  the  garden  of  Armytage 
House.  The  paths  were  smooth  and 
dry.  the  box  edgings  were  cut  with  the 
greatest  nicety,  and  the  beds  which  they 
surrounded  were  filled  in  summer  with 
an  abundance  of  sweet-smelling  flowers  ; 
now.  however,  the  bare  stems  alone  re- 
mained, save  that  one  or  two  sickly  rose- 
buds had  struggled  into  bloom  against 
the  inclemency  of  the  season.  Two 
tall  yew-trees,  cut  into  trim  shapes, 
overshadowed  the  garden-gate,  on  which 
was  seen  a  brass  plate  bearing  this  in- 
scription. ;  Dr.  MeanwelFs  Classical 
Academy:' 

But  I  will  not  detain  my  readers  by  a 
lengthened  description  of  the  outside  of 
the  house,  for  though  I  am  an  old  lady 


. 

THE    SCHOOLFELLOWS.  47 

now,  yet  I  recollect  well  that  I  always 
made  a  point  of  skipping  any  long1  ac- 
counts of  verdant  slopes,  flowery  meads, 
or  storied  piles,  which  I  met  with  in  the 
story  books  which  my  kind  mama  pre- 
sented to  me  when  I  was  a  little  girl. 
So,  if  my  young  friends  will  kindly  join 
me,  we  will  step  in  at  once,  and  see  what 
is  going  on  in  Dr.  Meanwell's  school- 
room. 

It  is  Wednesday,  a  half-holiday,  and 
the  fifth  of  November.  The  Doctor  is 
seated  at  a  high  desk,  from  which  he  can 
see  that  his  young  subjects  are  paying 
proper  attention  to  their  various  studies. 
He  is  dressed  in  black,  and  by  his  side 
lies  a  cane,  whose  only  duty  it  is  to  give  a 
smart  tap-tap  on  the  desk,  whenever  it 


48  THE   SCHOOLFELLOWS. 

does  not  suit  him  to  raise  his  voice  to 
enjoin  silence  ;  for  the  full  penalty  of  the 
law,  Hogging,  is  never  resorted  to  at 
Armytage  House.  The  Doctor  is  look- 
ing grave,  for  the  boys  of  the  first  Latin 
class  are  repeating  their  lesson — it  is 
finished.  The  morning  has  passed  satis- 
factorily ;  the  boys  have  been  as  attentive 
as  most  boys  can  be;  and  the  Doctor 
smiles  blandly  around  him,  and  is  prepa- 
ing  to  dismiss  them  to  the  play-ground, 
when  suddenly  a  titter  is  heard  at  the 
further  end  of  the  long  desk  which  runs 
down  the  whole  length  of  the  school- 
room. 

"  Silence !"  cried  Doctor  Meanwell. 
"Boys,  it  is  now  twelve  o'clock;  your 
conduct  to-day  has  pleased  me  much, 


THE   SCHOOLFELLOWS.  49 

you  have  oeen  steady  and  attentive,  and, 
as  nothing  gives  me  greater  pleasure  than 
to  see  you  happy,  I  shall  consent  to  the 
request  you  made  this  morning :  as  soon 
as  it  is  dark,  the  bonfire  shall  be  lighted, 
and  the  fireworks  commence.  But  mark 
me :  there  must  be  no  playing  with  the 
fireworks.  The  gardener  will  superin- 
tend the  festivities;  and — "  Here  the 
Doctor  paused;  for  from  the  same  end 
of  the  desk,  whose  occupants  had  been 
called  to  order  at  the  commencement  of 
his  speech,  there  proceeded  the  sound  of 
smothered  laughter. 

The    Doctor   removed   the  spectacles 
from    his    nose,    and    sent    an   inquiring 
glance  to  the  corner  whence  these  dis- 
respectful   sounds    proceeded.      "Young 
4 


50  THE   SCHOOLFELLOWS. 

gentleman,"  he  exclaimed,  "  what  is  the 
reason  of  this  interruption  ?"  The  boys 
returned  no  answer ;  but,  directed  by  the 
glance  of  many  a  merry  pair  of  laughter- 
loving  eyes,  he  soon  discovered  that  the 
cause  was  no  other  than  a  rough  portrait 
sketched  on  the  wall  with  a  blackened 
cork,  by  some  precocious  draughtsman. 

"  Heyday !  what  have  wre  here  ?"  said 
Doctor  Meanwell,  W7ho  in  the  innocence 
of  his  heart,  at  first  supposed  it  to  be  a 
representation  of  the  popular  Guy  Faux7 
but,  on  a  nearer  inspection  the  truth 
began  to  break  upon  him.  Could  it  be  ! 
Yes,  it  certainly  was,  a  caricature-likeness 
of  himself — yes,  there  were  his  spectacles 
and  his  bald  head ;  and  even  the  little 
wart  which  had  taken  up  its  abode  on 


THE   SCHOOLFELLOWS.  51 

his   time-honoured   nose,  was   faithfully 
pourtrayed. 

Now,  the  Doctor  had  a  great  dislike 
of  ridicule  in  any  shape.  He  always 
checked  it  when  displayed  by  his  pupils 
upon  one  another;  and  it  was  not  to 
be  expected  that  he  would  endure  it 
with  particular  patience  when  directed 
against  himself.  He  threw  a  searching 
and  inquiring  glance  along  the  forms 
on  which  his  pupils  were  seated  in  quest 
of  the  delinquent;  (for,  without  asking 
questions,  Doctor  MeanwelPs  quick- 
ness of  observation  often  enabled  him 
to  detect  an  offending  urchin;)  but 
though  many  a  little  cheek  was  ready  to 
burst  with  ill-surpressed  laughter,  on 
none  did  he  detect  any  symptoms  of  em- 


52  THE   SCHOOLFELLOWS. 

barrassment,  till  his  eye  fell  on  Charles 
Radnor  and  Arthur  Newell.  And  what 
were  the  signs  of  guilt  that  there  met 
his  penetrating  glance?  Charles  Rad- 
nor's eye  fell  as  the  Doctor's  met  his; 
and  little  Newell,  pencil  in  hand,  pre- 
tended to  be  working  most  industriously 
at  a  sum  which  his  master  had  told  him 
was  right  ten  minutes  before.  "  Charles 
Radnor;'  said  the  Doctor,  "  was  this  your 
doing  ?"  There  was  a  striking  difference 
in  the  personal  appearance  of  the  two 
boys,  who  thus  drew  Dr.  Meanwell's 
attention.  Little  Newell,  as  Arthur  was 
called  by  his  schoolfellows,  was  of  small 
stature,  rendered  in  walking  the  more 
conspicuous  from  a  lameness  in  one  of 
his  feet,  the  consequence  of  a  fall 


THE    SCHOOLFELLOWS.  53 

received  in  infancy :  he  had  light 
curling  hair,  blue  eyes,  and  a  fair  com- 
plexion ;  bat  the  glow  given  by  active 
exercise  to  the  countenance  was  wanting 
in  his.  Charles  Radnor,  on  the  contrary, 
tall  of  his  age,  and  easy  and  elegant  in 
form,  excelled  amongst  his  companions 
in  the  skill  and  agility  required  fbr  out- 
door sports  and  games.  A  strong  friend- 
ship subsisted  between  these  two  boys, 
which  had  commenced  and  increased 
gradually  from  the  time  they  had  first 
met  at  school,  notwithstanding  they  bore 
no  greater  resemblance  to  each  other  in 
character  than  in  person.  Arthur,  the 
'  boy  of  slight  and  delicate  frame,  pos- 
sessed the  greater  portion  of  courage  and 
firmness  of  mind.  Quiet  and  mild  in 


64  THE    SCHOOLFELLOWS. 

manner,  he  had  strong  and  acute  feelings, 
and  returned  affection  with  gratitude. 
Charles  was  of  a  more  lively  disposition, 
and  had  less  steady  principle,  but  his 
kindness  and  goodness  of  heart  made 
him  a  general  favourite  in  the  school, 
and  by  none  of  his  young  comrades  was 
he  more  beloved  than  by  Arthur  Newell. 
Schoolboys  are  generally  thoughtless  and 
high-spirited,  and  Arthur's  lameness 
often  attracted  heedless  remarks  from  his 
companions,  who  would  take  an  incon- 
siderate pride  in  boasting  of  their 
strength  and  agility  to  one  wrho  was 
quite  unable  to  mingle  in  any  active 
sport.  Charles  Radnor  had  too  much 
consideration  for  the  feelings  of  his  friend 
ever  to  make  such  remarks;  and  the 


THE   SCHOOLFELLOWS.  55 

gratitude  felt  towards  him  by  the  poor 
lame  boy  in  return,  was  great  in  the 
extreme.  ' 

But  with  all  his  kindness  of  heart, 
Charles  had  two  great  failings — a  love 
of  mischief,  and  yet  so  great  a  terror  of 
the  punishment  consequent  upon  his 
own  acts,  that  to  screen  himself  he  would 
often  descend  to  the  meanness  of  telling 
a  falsehood.  Yet,  let  it  not  be  supposed 
that  he  sinned  thus  quite  deliberately, 
or  without  self-reproach:  many  and 
many  were  the  times  he  had  resolved  to 
conquer  himself  of  this  fault,  "On  the  next 
.opportunity,"  he  would  think,  "I  will 
make  a  resolute  stand  against  such  sin- 
ful weakness;"  but  no  sooner  did  the 
temptation  occur,  than  it  proved  too 


56  THE  SCHOOLFELLOWS. 

strong  for  him,  and  all  his  good  refla- 
tions vanished  in  the  momentary  dread 
of  punishment 

But  all  this  time,  Doctor  Mean  well's 
question  has  been  unanswered — "  Did 
you  do  this,  Charles  Radnor?" 

Need  we  tell  the  answer?  He  had 
drawn  the  likeness,  or  rather  the  attempt 
at  likeness,  but  with  no  intention  that  it 
should  meet  the  eye  of  the  original.  It 
was  his  effort  to  efface  it,  unobservedr 
that  first  roused  the  laughter  of  his  com- 
panions ;  no  sooner  were  they  silent  than 
he  again  attempted  to  remove  it;  but 
the  laughter  of  the  other  boys  again, 
drew  the  Doctor's  attention  to  the  spot ; 
and  now  nothing  was  wanting,  but  to 
discover  the  mischievous  artist  Charles 


THE   SCHOOLFELLOWS.  57 

thought  but  of  the  probable  punishment 
that  would  await  him — that  he  should  be 
confined,  solitary,  to  the  house,  while  the 
rest  of  his  companions  were  enjoying  the 
bonfire  and  fireworks — and  the  tempta- 
tion proved  too  strong  for  him.  All  his 
good  resolutions  vanished  in  air,  and  the 
ready  falsehood  released  him  for  the  time 
from  the  consequences  of  his  fault. 

The  Doctor  passed  on  to  little  Newell. 
"  Newell,  do  you  know  anything  of  this  ?"? 

"Charles  will  be  doubly  punished  if 
I  say  it  was  he,"  thought  Newell;  "I 
would  rather  endure  the  blame  myself  a 
hundred  times,  if  it  were  not  for  the 
meanness  of  telling  a  falsehood.  And 
yet  it  will  seem  so  unkind  to  betray  him, 
and  get  him  into  disgrace,  when  I  could 


58  THE   SCHOOLFELLOWS. 

so  easily  save  him.  It  cannot  be  so  mean 
or  dishonourable  to  tell  an  untruth  to 
save  one's  friend,  as  telling  an  ordinary 
falsehood  would  be;  and  see  how  pale 
and  frightened  poor  Charles  looks !  I 
really  cannot  tell  the  Doctor  it  was  his 
doing."  Again  the  Doctor  urged  his  ques- 
tion. "  Was  this  your  doing,  Newell  ?" 

Newell  still  paused :  his  conscience 
whispered  to  him,  "  Tell  the  truth."  But 
another  glance  at  the  pale  face  of  his 
friend  made  him  hesitate ;  and,  while  he 
coloured  with  shame  at  the  act  he  was 
committing  he  stammered  out — 

« It  was,  Sir." 

Dr.  Meanwell  looked  grieved.  "  I  had 
hoped,"  he  said,  "  that  as  we  commenced 
the  day,  so  we  should  have  finished  it, 


THE   SCHOOLFELLOWS.  59 

without  one  fault  calling  for  serious  re- 
proof. As  regards  the  rudehess  to  myself, 
I  could  have  overlooked  it ;  but,  as  mas- 
ter of  this  school,  I  should  not  be  doing 
my  duty  were  I  not  to  insist  on  a  proper 
degree  of  respect,  more  especially  as  I 
have  resolved  to  dispense  with  all  cor- 
poral punishment.  I  must  own,  too? 
that  I  feel  hurt  that  any  of  you,  and  more 
especially  Newell,  whom  I  have  treated 
with  more  than  usual  kindness,  should 
repay  my  care  by  striving  to  cast  ridicule 
upon  me.  Newell,  you  will  remain  in  the 
school-room  this  afternoon.  I  am  sorry 
to  be  obliged  to  punish  you  on  a  day 
which  I  hoped  would  have  been  one  of 
pleasure  to  you  all.  For  the  rest  of  you, 
your  lessons  are  over  for  the  day ;  amuse 


60  THE   SCHOOLFELLOWS. 

yourselves  in  making  preparations  for  the 
evening.  There  are  plenty  of  materials 
about.  I  shall  be  looking  out  for  a  famous 
bonfire:7 

Off  ran  the  schoolboys,  leaving  their 
solitary  companion  in  possession  of  the 
deserted  room,  which  now  seemed  doubly 
dreary  from  the  absence  of  the  noise  and 
bustle  which  had  been  there  but  the 
moment  before. 

Newell  sat  sadly,  listening  to  the  dis- 
tant shouts  and  laughter  of  his  compa- 
nions, wrho  were  busily  engaged  in  piling 
brushwood,  brambles,  thorns,  or  wiiatever 
they  could  lay  their  hands  on,  suitable 
for  the  bonfire.  At  no  time  are  the 
sounds  of  cheerful  sports  more  tantalizing 
to  the  young,  than  when  they  are  pre- 


THE    SCHOOLFELLOWS.  61. 

vented  joining  in  them  themselves,  and 
more  especially  when  it  has  been  caused 
by  their  own  conduct  And  as  Newell 
sat  listening,  gloomily,  to  the  distant 
sounds,  every  whoop  and  shout  of  laugh- 
ter but  served  to  depress  his  spirits  more 
and  more.  He  had  another  source  of 
regret — the  Doctor  thought  him  un- 
grateful ;  and  Newell,  always  warm  in 
his  affections  when  kindly  treated,  was 
now  reproaching  himself  for  having 
allowed  the  Doctor  to  think  him  forgetful 
of  his  attention  and  kindness.  The  more 
he  thought  upon  the  matter,  the  more 
uneasy  he  grew.  "  The  Doctor  is  the 
best  and  kindest  friend  I  have/'  he  cried. 
"  How  often  has  he  told  us  that  a  false- 
hood always  bears  its  own  punishment 


62  THE   SCHOOLFELLOWS. 

with  it!  And  now  he  must  for  ever 
think  me  either  ungrateful,  or  guilty  of 
the  meanness  of  telling  an  untruth." 

The  thoughts  of  Charles  Radnor  were 
not  more  enviable  than  those  of  his  friend. 
What  to  him  now  were  the  enjoyments 
of  the  evening,  to  which  he,  in  common 
with  his  companions  had  so  long  looked 
forward  with  pleasure  ?  He  felt  in 
constant  dread  that  some  of  his  school- 
fellows, knowing  him  to  be  the  real 
offender,  might  inform  the  Doctor  of  his 
meanness.  While  all  around  him  were 
gay  and  cheerful  he  stood  silent  and 
apart.  What  mattered  it  to  him  now 
that  he  should  be  thought  the  most  active 
in  the  playground — the  most  skilful  in  his 
class  ?  He  felt  that  the  smallest  boy  in 


THE   SCHOOLFELLOWS.  63 

the  school  was  his  superior — he  felt  little 
in  his  own  eyes.  Every  moment  he  was 
inclined  to  run  to  the  Doctor  to  tell  him 
the  whole  truth,  and  clear  his  conscience 
from  its  stain ;  but  then  arose  the  fear 
and  dread  of  punishment :  and  when  the 
opportunity  presented  itself,  he  had  not 
sufficient  courage  or  strength  of  mind  to 
carry  out  his  intentions. 

As  it  grew  dusk,  the  solitary  prisoner 
could  hear  that  the  festivities  of  the  even- 
ing had  commenced.  A  bright  stream 
of  light,  which,  as  it  reached  the  clouds, 
would  burst  into  sparkling  stars,  pro- 
claimed when  the  rushing  rocket  rose 
high  in  air.  The  sudden  flash,  and  the 
loud  shouts  of  the  schoolboys,  told  when 
any  firework  of  great  brilliancy  was  dis- 


64  THE   SCHOOLFELLOWS. 

charged ;  but  broader  still  grew  the  light, 
and  louder  still  the  shouts,  as  the  great 
bonfire  suddenly  burst  forth  its  flame  and 
smoke.  "  They  are  all  happy/'  thought 
Newell ;  "  and  even  Radnor,  perhaps^ 
enjoys  himself  and  thinks  nothing  of 
the  sacrifice  I  have  made  for  his  sake:' 
His  sorrows  were  too  much  for  him :  he 
burst  into  tears  and  hid  his  face  in  his 
hands,  sobbing  bitterly. 

But  surely  the  bonfire  is  stronger  than 
ever  bonfire  was  before,  for  the  heat  of 
it  seems  to  reach  him  even  in  the  room  • 
and  it  must  be  the  scent  of  the  burning 
wood  and  tar  which  he  smells,  and  the 
crackling  of  the  brushwood  which  he 
hears.  See,  even  the  smoke  seems  to 
have  penetrated  the  chamber !  But  why 


THE   SCHOOLFELLOWS.  65 

that  sudden  shout,  followed  by  as  sudden 
a  stillness  ?  It  is  different  from  any  he  has 
heard  before  that  evening.  Again,  those 
are  voices  which  he  hears ;  they  must  be 
under  the  school-room  window.  And, 
can  it  be  ? — yes,  there  is  his  own  name 
shouted — Newell!  Newell!  and  the  ap- 
palling truth  bursts  upon  him  as  the  cry 
of  fire  !  fire !  resounds  through  the  ah*. 

Newell  rushed  to  the  door,  but  it  was 
too  late.  A  spark  from  one  of  the  torches 
(carried  from  the  house  for  the  purpose 
of  lighting  the  bonfire)  had  fallen  in  the 
hall;  the  current  of  air  caused  by  an 
open  door  had  soon  spread  and  fanned  it 
into  a  flame.  Already  the  broad  staircase 
was  in  a  blaze,  and  the  volume  of  smoke 
which  rushed  in  at  the  school-room  door 
5 


66  THE   SCHOOLFELLOWS. 

drove  him  back,  gasping  for  breath.  He 
scrambled  on  to  the  window-sill,  and 
looked  despairingly  around  him ;  the 
height  was  far  too  great  for  a  leap,  and 
he  well  knew  that  there  was  no  ladder  at 
hand  of  sufficient  length  to  reach  him. 
Beneath  him  stood  his  frightened  school- 
fellows, each  shouting  to  him  to  escape, 
and  each  giving  different  advice.  "  Jump, 
jump,  Newell,"  cried  one  party.  "No, 
no/'  cried  another ;  "  he  would  be  dashed 
to  pieces.  Keep  where  you  are ;  the  Doc- 
tor has  sent  for  assistance ;  we  shall  have 
a  ladder  in  a  few  minutes." 

"  Silence,  all  !*'  cried  the  commanding 
voice  of  the  Doctor.  "  Newell,  listen  to 
me :  be  calm ;  raise  yourself  gently  from 
the  window;  cling  firmly  to  the  stout 


THE   SCHOOLFELLOWS.  67 

branches  of  the  ivy,  and  so  let  yourself 
down." 

Poor  Newell  trembled,  and  his  face 
looked  ghastly  pale.  From  his  lameness 
he  had  generally  been  prevented  from 
joining  in  the  athletic  sports  of  the  other 
boys,  arid  he  had  never  attempted  to 
climb  in  his  life.  "  I  cannot,  I  cannot/' 
he  cried,  as  in  obedience  to  the  Doctors 
directions  he  strove  to  make  his  way 
from  the  window.  "  Courage,  courage," 
cried  the  Doctor,  though  his  own  voice 
trembled  as  he  spoke,  while  he  saw  the 
feeble  efforts  made  by  the  poor  boy  to 
cling  to  the  ivy. 

"  It  is  useless,"  cried  poor  Newell ;  "  I 
feel  I  have  not  sufficient  strength.  It  is 
my  own  fault  that  I  am  here ;  I  am  justly 


68  THE  SCHOOLFELLOWS. 

punished.  But — but,  dear  Mr.  Meanwell, 
I  was  not  ungrateful — I  was  not  unmind- 
ful of  your  kindness.  I  did  not — Oh  God 
forgive  me ! — Do  not  cry  so,  dear  Charles ; 
you  could  not  know  it  would  come  to  this. 
God  bless  you — bless  you  all!" 

"Oh,  Arthur!  Arthur!  I  shall  die," 
cried  his  conscience-stricken  friend.  "  Oh 
Sir,  Sir,  he  was  punished  for  my  fault. 
It  was  I  drew  that  picture,  and  I  basely 
allowed  Newell  to  be  punished  for  me. 
Oh,  I  have  murdered  him!  But  though 
my  repentance  may  have  come  too  late, 
still  if  I  cannot  save  him  I  can  perish 
with  him.  I  will  climb  up  to  the  school- 
room by  the  ivy,  in  the  same  way  that 
you  told  Newell  to  descend."  And  he 
rushed  forward  to  carry  out  his  project 


THE   SCHOOLFELLOWS.  69 

"  Stay,  stay,  rash  boy !"  cried  the  Doc- 
tor, holding  him  back;  "and  yet,"  he 
thought,  as  he  saw  the  smoke  now  issuing 
from  the  window,  "it  seems  his  only 
chance.  Before  the  gardener  returns  with 
the  ladder  the  poor  boy  may  perish.  Be 
firm,  Radnor,  then,"  he  said ;  "  be  firm : 
take  this  rope  with  you ;  when  you  reach 
the  room  tie  one  end  of  it  firmly  round 
Newell's  waist,  pass  the  other  round  the 
leg  of  the  desk  which  is  close  to  the  win- 
dow, and  throw  it  down  to  us;  by  that 
means  we  can  save  you  both." 

Radnor  waited  not  another  instant,  but 
boldly  commenced  the  ascent  Every  eye 
was  strained  after  him,  as  from  branch  to 
branch,  and  from  stem  to  stem,  he  drew 
himself  up.  Once  he  paused,  and  it  was 


70  THE   SCHOOLFELLOWS. 

thought  his  strength  was  exhausted,  but 
it  was  only  for  a  moment  to  recover 
breath,  in  the  next  he  had  started  with 
renewed  vigour,  and  paused  not  again  till 
he  was  by  the  side  of  little  Newell.  Here 
he  followed  the  Doctors  directions,  and 
in  a  few  minutes  both  boys  were  safe  from 
the  reach  of  the  devouring  flames. 

But  the  excitement,  joined  to  the  suffo- 
cating heat  and  smoke,  had  proved  tco 
much  for  the  weak  frame  of  poor  Newell, 
and  as  he  reached  the  ground  the  good 
Doctor  caught  him  fainting  in  his  arms, 
and  bore  him  to  a  neighbouring  house. 

When  he  returned  slowly  to  conscious- 
ness, the  flames  were  nearly  subdued  by 
the  exertions  of  the  neighbours,  and  the 
Doctor  and  Charles  Radnor  were  bending 


THE  SCHOOL-FELLOWS.    Page  71. 


THE   SCHOOLFELLOWS.  71 

anxiously  over  him,  the  latter  bitterly 
reproaching  himself  for  his  past  con- 
duct, 

"  Is  that  you,  dear  Charles  ?"  said  New- 
ell, faintly.  "  Oh,  Newell,"  cried  his  friend, 
"can  you  ever  forgive  me  for  the  meanness 
I  have  been  guilty  of;  and  if  you  do,  can 
I  ever  forgive  myself?'' 

"  Dear  Charles,"  said  Newell,  "  do  not 
ask  my  for^eness;  I  have  nothing  to 
forgive.  If  you  have  done  me  any  wrong, 
you  would  have  more  than  repaid  it  by 
risking  your  life  to  save  mine,  as  you  did 
so  bravely  but  a  few  moments  since." 

"  But,  my  dear  boys,"  said  Doctor 
Meanwell,  "  there  is  indeed  ONE  of  whose 
forgiveness  you  both  stand  in  need — ONE 
whom  you  have  indeed  this  day  grievously 


72  THE  SCHOOLFELLOWS. 

offended.  How  far  better,  how  far  nobler 
would  it  have  been  had  you  told  the  truth 
at  once  !  You  must  feel  that  you  have 
both  been  much  to  blame,  and  that  I  am 
indeed  right  when  I  say  that  nothing  can 
serve  as  an  excuse  for  falsehood  ;  that  in 
telling  an  untruth  we  but  fashion  a  rod 
for  our  future  punishment.  Oh  !  before 
you  close  your  eyes  this  night,  fall  down 
and  pray  to  your  Heaven^  Father  for 
strength  in  future  to  resist  every  tempta- 
tion of  falsehood." 


FREDERICK  SEDLEY'S   HOLIDAYS. 


THE  month  of  June  was  a  time  looked 
forward  to  with  joy  by  Frederick  Sedley 
and  in  fact  by  many  other  young  people 
of  his  .age ;  not  only  because  then  the 
fields  and  hedge-rows  would  be  decked 
with  their  gayest  flowers,  but  because 
there  approached,  Avhat  is  dearer  to  little 
boys  and  girls  than  the  bright  shining  sun, 
or  the  prettiest  flowers  that  ever  bloomed 
— the  midsummer  holidays,  when  they 
would  see  again  their  kind  parents  and 
their  own.  dear  little  brothers  and  sisters. 


74  FREDERICK   SEDLEY'S   HOLIDAYS. 

Frederick  Sedley  was  a  very  good  boy; 
he  had  gained  the  prize  at  school,  for 
good  behaviour,  and  had  written  home 
such  a  pretty  letter  to  tell  his  dear  papa 
and  mama  that  the  academy  would  break 
up  for  the  midsummer  vacation  on  the 
eighteenth,  and  that  his  kind  Instructor, 
Mr.  Parsons,  would  bring  him  home  in 
the  coach  wThich  passed  through  Elms- 
dale,  which  was  the  name  of  the  place 
where  Frederick  lived. 

Very  few  of  the  schoolboys  wanted 
calling  up  on  the  morning  of  the  eight- 
eenth of  June,  for  the  thoughts  of  home 
had  made  them  sleep  lightly.  Frederick 
was  one  of  the  first  to  rise,  and  the  time 
seemed  to  go  so  slowly,  that  the  boys  felt 
sure  the  coach  must  have  passed ;  for  it 


FREDERICK   SEDLEY'S   HOLIDAYS.  75 

seemed  longer  coming  that  morning  than 
it  had  ever  done  before.  But  no!  the 
clock  struck  nine,  and  punctual  to  its 
time,  up  drove  the  coach  that  was 
to  convey  them  home.  Then  there  was 
such  shouting,  and  clapping  of  small 
hands.  Only  some  of  the  elder  boys  tried 
to  look  grave,  because  they  knew  Mr. 
Parsons  was  very  good  to  them  all,  and 
though  they  were  as  pleased  as  the  others 
to  go  home,  yet  they  did  not  like  to  seem 
unmindful  of  his  kindness.  But  Mr. 
Parsons  only  smiled  kindly  upon  his  noisy 
pupils ;  for  though  he  was  very  fond  of 
them,  yet  he  knew  it  was  only  natural 
for  them  to  prefer  home  to  school. 

When    Frederick   reached    home    he 
found  his  papa  and  mama  and  his  little 


76  FREDERICK   SEDLEY'S    HOLIDAYS. 

brother  and  sister,  Thomas  and  Lucy,  all 
waiting  to  see  him.  Then  he  had  to  dis- 
play his  reward  for  good  conduct,  and 
opened  his  ciphering-book  to  show  all 
the  long  sums  he  had  gone  through,  till 
little  Lucy  held  up  her  hands  in  surprise 
at  his  being  able  to  add  up  such  long 
puzzling  rows  of  figures. 

Now  nothing  delighted  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Sedley  so  much  as  to  see  their  children 
cheerful  and  happy;  and  as  they  were 
much  pleased  with  Frederick's  conduct 
at  school,  they  asked  him  what  he  would 
like  best  for  his  amusement  in  the  holi- 
days. Frederick  considered  for  a  moment, 
for  he  was  not  a  selfish  boy;  he  did  not 
think  of  his  own  amusement  only :  so  he 
replied,  that  he  should  prefer  something 


FREDERICK   SEDLEY'S   HOLIDAYS.  77 

that  would  please  his  little  brother  and 
sister  also.  "  Go,  then,"  said  Mr.  Sedley, 
"  and  consult  together."  Then  there  was 
a  great  consideration  among  the  young 
folks  to  hit  upon  something  which  would 
give  enjoyment  to  them  all.  At  last  little 
Thomas  proposed  a  donkey,  and  as  this 
pleased  all  parties,  a  donkey,  it  was  set- 
tled, it  should  b.e. 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Sedley  took 
them  to  the  stable,  and  there  they  found 
one  of  the  nicest  donkeys  they  had  ever 
seen ;  he  had  a  beautiful  saddle  and  bridle, 
and  looked  so  sleek  and  good-tempered, 
that  there  really  seemed  no  occasion  for  the 
pretty  whip  which  was  hanging  by  his  side. 

"  Now,  my  dear  children,"  said  Mr. 
Sedley,  "I  have  one  thing  to  mention 


78  FREDERICK   SEDLEY'S   HOLIDAYS. 

which  you  will  be  sure  to  observe :  you 
may  ride  over  the  common,  and  round  the 
orchard  and  through  the  fields  at  the  back 
of  the  house,  but  on  no  account, — and  I 
speak  particularly  to  you,  as  the  eldest, 
Frederick, — on  no  account  go  on  the 
high-road." 

"  Oh  no,  papa,  we  do  not  want  to  ride 
on  the  dusty  road,"  said  Frederick ;  "  and 
we  shall  be  sure  not  to  go  there  now  that 
we  know  it  is  against  your  wish." 

"  Mount,  then,"  cried  Mr.  Sedley,  "  and 
let  us  see  how  you  can  manage  your 
steed. — Off  with  you !" 

And  off  went  the  merry  party.  First 
one  mounted,  and  then  the  other;  and 
on  they  rode  through  the  fields  and  lanes, 
and  picked  the  bright  hedge-flowers,  and 


FREDERICK   SEDLEY'S   HOLIDAYS.  79 

made  wreaths  of  king  cups  to  put  round 
the  donkey's  neck ;  and  the  donkey  nib- 
bled the  grass  as  he  went  along,  and 
switched  his  tail,  and  seemed  quite  proud 
of  the  fine  figure  he  cut.  So  they  passed 
day  after  day,  and  three  happier  children 
were  not  to  be  found? 

But,  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  this  happi- 
ness was  at  last  suddenly  marred,  and  all 
through  one  act  of  disobedience.  You 
remember  that  Mr.  Sedley  had  told 
them  on  no  account  to  go  on  the  high- 
road. Well,  they  all  paid  great  attention 
to  his  wishes,  till,  one  morning,  when,  as 
they  were  riding  on  the  common,  they 
were  joined  by  Alfred  Faulding,  a  little 
boy,  the  son  of  one  of  their  father's  friends. 

After  Alfred  had  patted  and  admired 


80  FREDERICK   SEDLEY'S   HOLIDAYS. 

the  donkey,  he  began  to  tell  them  of  all 
the  pretty  things  he  had  at  home.  "  Ah  P 
he  said,  "  I  have  two  such  beautiful  rab- 
bits, one  of  them  is  covered  with  black 
and  white  spots ;  the  other  is  jet  black. 
You  must  come  and  see  them,  Frederick." 

But  Frederick  said,  "  No  thank  you 
Alfred,  not  to-day."  He  did  not  say  the 
reason,  for  he  was  afraid  of  being  laughed 
at.  Little  Thomas,  however,  saved  him 
the  trouble,  for  he  said,  "  Oh !  no,  indeed, 
Frederick  cannot  go  without  asking 
papa's  leave ;  for  you  know,  Alfred,  he 
cannot  reach  your  house  without  passing 
the  road ;  and  papa  said  we  were  none  of 
us  to  go  there." 

"  That  is  all  very  well  for  a  little  fellow 
like  you,  Master  Thomas,"  said  Alfred; 


FREDERICK   SEDLEY'S   HOLIDAYS.  81 

"  but  if  I  were  Frederick,  I  would  not 
be  such  a  milk-sop  as  that;  I  should  be 
ashamed  to  be  tied  to  mama's  apron- 
strings,  like  a  great  baby."  Frederick 
was  so  foolish  as  to  feel  quite  ashamed 
of  Alfred's  ridicule.  "  It  cannot  make 
much  difference,"  thought  he,  "I  shall 
be  back  again  in  a  minute,  and  if  I  do 
not  tell  where  I  have  been,  papa  need 
know  nothing  about  it."  And  Alfred 
at  length  persuaded  him  to  ride  to  his 
house  and  look  at  the  rabbits. 

They  were  indeed  very  pretty  rabbits, 
with  long  drooping  ears,  which,  Alfred 
said,  were  called  "lop-ears."  Frederick 
was  quite  delighted  with  them,  and  could 
have  watched  them  for  hours,  as  they  sat 
munching  the  cabbage-stalks  which  he 
6 


82  FREDERICK   SEDLEY'S  HOLIDAYS. 

gave  tnem.  But  Alfred  having  now  dis- 
played his  treasures,  thought  it  as  well 
for  them  to  be  moving  back  again :  "  For/' 
he  said,  "somebody  might  be  sent  for 
you,  Frederick;  and  then  I  suppose  I 
should  have  a  share  of  the  blame  for 
bringing  you  here."  So  they  both 
mounted  the  donkey  at  once,  arid  oflf 
they  started  on  their  way  back  to  the 
spot  where  they  had  left  Thomas  and 
Lucy. 

"  You  see,  Frederick,  you  had  nothing 
to  be  afraid  of,"  said  Alfred ;  ^  and  you 
might  never  have  seen  my  beautiful  rab- 
bits, if  you  had  minded  exactly  what  your 
papa  told  you;  and  I  should  like  to 
know  what  harm  was  likely  to  have  hap- 
pened to  you  ?" 


FREDERICK   SEDLEY'S  HOLIDAYS.  83 

Frederick  did  not  feel  easy,  though  he 
tried  to  appear  so,  as  he  answered,  "  Oh ! 
I  see  there  was  no  danger  at  all."  But 
he  spoke  rather  too  soon,  for  at  this  mo- 
ment, when  they  were  within  sight  of  the 
common,  a  coach,  at  full  speed,  turned 
the  corner  of  a  neighbouring  lane.  The 
coachman  saw  the  two  boys,  but  it  was 
too  late  for  him  to  stop  the  horses.  He 
shouted  to  them  to  get  out  of  the  way. 
Frederick  flogged  the  donkey,  and  tried 
with  all  his  might  to  do  so,  but  in  vain. 
The  animal,  frightened  at  the  noise, 
turned  round  in  the  middle  of  the  road ; 
in  the  next  instant  the  coach  had  passed 
at  full  gallop,  and  Frederick,  Alfred,  and 
the  donkey  were  dashed  together  to  the 
ground.  Little  Lucy  screamed  with 


84  FREDERICK   SEDLEY'S   HOLIDAYS. 

terror ;  but  Thomas,  although  quite 
as  much  frightened,  had  presence  of 
mind  enough  to  run  immediately  to  the 
house  for  assistance.  Mr.  Sedley  has- 
tened to  the  spot,  and  found  Frederick 
lying  quite  still  in  the  path  by  the  road- 
side, where  he  had  been  thrown.  He 
raised  him  in  his  arms,  and  carried  him 
to  the  house,  followed  by  Alfred,  who 
had  escaped  with  scarcely  any  injury. 
Though  stunned  and  bruised,  it  was  soon 
found  that  Frederick  had  not  been  so 
seriously  hurt  as  was  at  first  feared ;  but 
his  ancle  was  sprained,  and  for  several 
days  he  was  obliged  to  keep  at  'home 
and  lie  quietly  on  a  sofa.  When  he  re- 
covered, there  were  no  more  pleasant 
rides  to  be  had  on  the  donkey,  for  Mr 


FREDERICK   SEDLEY'S   HOLIDAYS.  85 

Sedley  at  once  sent  him  back  to  his 
former  owner.  Frederick  felt  that  this 
punishment  of  his  fault  was  but  just. 
He  regretted  the  loss  of  the  donkey,  but 
he  felt  still  more  sorry  to  have  forfeited 
his  father's  confidence  by  suffering  him- 
self to  be  so  easily  persuaded  to  disobey 
his  commands.  It  was  a  lesson  he  never 
forgot,  nor  would  he  ever  afterwards 
allow  the  sneers  or  laughter  of  his  com- 
panions to  turn  him  from  what  his  con- 
science told  him  was  right. 


COUSIN  JOHN'S    FIRST  STORY. 


HERO. 

"  OH,  Cousin  John,  will  you  draw  me 
some  pretty  pictures,  if  you  please,  and 
tell  me  some  amusing  stories  about 
them  r 

So  spoke  Willy  Franklin,  a  little  fair- 
haired  boy,  of  some  six  or  seven  years 
old:  for  nothing  amused  him  more  than 
to  sit  by  his  cousin  and  watch  him  at  his 
drawings ;  and  when  he  had  finished 
them,  to  ask  him  to  explain  what  they 
all  meant :  and  as  Cousin  John  was  very 


COUSIN  JOHN'S  FIRST  STORY.  87 

fond  of  children  generally,  and  particu- 
larly so  of  little  Willy,  he  would  good- 
naturedly  take  his  pencil  and  sketch  him 
as  many  little  drawings  as  he  pleased. 
So  he  answered,  "  Well  then,  Willy,  my 
little  man,  come  and  sit  on  this  chair  by 
my  side,  and  I  will  see  what  I  can  do." 
Then  he  sketched  and  sketched  away,  till 
he  had  finished  two  nice  drawings. 

"  Oh  what  pretty  pictures,"  cried  Willy, 
"  what  can  they  be  about  ?" 

"  The  first,"  said  Cousin  John,  "  is,  as 
you  see,  the  picture  of  a  handsome  black 
charger,  with  an  officer  mounted  on  his 
back ;  the  name  of  the  horse  was  Hero, 
and  the  rider  is  intended  for  my  father, 
and  your  uncle,  Willy.  My  father,  as 
you  know,  held  a  commission  in  the 


88  COUSIN   JOHN'S    FIRST    STORY. 

army  during  the  late  war;  and  in  all  the 
battles  in  which  he  was  engaged  he  always 
rode  i  Black  Hero/  because  he  was  a 
horse  he  could  always  depend  upon, 
being  possessed  of  great  strength  and 
speed.  Then  he  was  beautifully  shaped, 
with  a  fine  arching  neck  and  rich  flowing 
mane ;  but,  what  was  better  than  all  his 
beauty,  was,  that  he  might  always  be 
trusted  in  hour  of  need:  neither  the  deep 
roar  of  the  artillery  nor  the  sharp  rattle 
of  the  musketry  raised  any  feeling  of 
fear  in  him :  he  would  rush  to  the  very 
cannon's  mouth  *as  bravely  as  if  he  had 
been  taking  an  ordinary  canter  in  the 
fields. 

"  In   the    course    of    an    engagement 
which  took  place  between  our  forces  and 


COUSIN   JOHN'S    FIRST   STORY.  89 

the  French,  the  regiment  to  which  my 
father  belonged  was  ordered  to  charge 
some  of  the  enemy's  cavalry,  who  were 
posted  on  an  opposite  hill.  In  the 
encounter  my  father  was  wounded  in  the 
arm  by  a  musket-ball ;  and,  being  unable 
to  control  his  horse  or  keep  up  with  his 
companions,  he  was  captured  by  a  French 
soldier,  who,  seeing  his  helpless  con- 
dition, contented  himself  with  disarming 
him  and  leading  him  to  the  rear  of  the 
French  regiment.  The  contest  was  kept 
up  with  fearful  energy,  and  the  enemy 
were  at  first  driven  back  by  the  resolute 
courage  of  our  troops ;  but  as  reinforce- 
ment after  reinforcement  continued  to 
arrive  to  the  assistance  of  the  French, 
they  in  turn  became  victors;  and  the 


90  COUSIN  JOHN'S   FIRST  STORY. 

English  commander,  seeing  the  inutility 
and  folly  of  contending  against  such 
superior  numbers,  ordered  the  retreat  to 
be  sounded,  which  in  cavalry  regiments, 
is  done  by  the  trumpet  sound. 

"  My  father's  horse,  hearing  the  notes 
he  had  always  been  accustomed  to  obey, 
burst  suddenly  from  the  soldier  who  was 
holding  him,  galloped  at  full  speed 
through  the  very  centre  of  the  French 
regiment,  and  carried  his  master  safely 
to  the  side  of  his  old  comrades. 

u  You  may  be  sure  that  after  this  my 
father  was  always  very  fond  of  Black 
Hero,  for  he  had  probably  saved  his  life, 
or,  at  all  events,  had  rescued  him  from  a 
long  and  dreary  imprisonment 

"  At   the   conclusion   of  the  war  my 


BLACK  IIEKO.    Page  91. 


COUSIN  JOHN'S   FIRST   STORY.  91 

father  returned  to  England,  and  brought 
with  him  the  noble  animal,  the  com- 
panion of  his  toils.  I  was  a  little  boy 
then,  Willy,  but  I  recollect  well  the  day 
when  they  rode  up  to  our  own  door,  and 
mama,  in  her  joy,  actually  threw  her 
arms  around  Hero's  neck.  And  he  grew 
such  a  favourite  with  us  all,  for  he  was  so 
gentle  and  dotile,  he  would  let  me  and 
my  little  brothers  and  sisters  mount  him, 
and  then  he  would  walk  about  as  quietly 
as  a  lamb." 

"  Oh  what  a  good  brave  horse,"  said 
Willy ;  "  how  I  should  have  loved  him. 
But  what  does  the  other  picture  mean  ? 
Is  that  about  Hero,  too  ?" 

"  Thai,'1  said  his  cousin,  "refers  to 
anotner  part  of  his  history. — My  father 


92  COUSIN  JOHN'S   FIRST   STORY. 

soon  after  his  return  home  received  a 
letter  from  a  very  old  friend  of  his,  a 
Mr.  Manby,  who  was  very  anxious  to  see 
him,  but  who  w^as  prevented  by  his  infirm- 
ities from  travelling  so  far  as  our  house. 
So  Hero  was  saddled  and  brought  round 
to  the  door,  and  my  father  started  off  on 
his  expedition.  His  friend  was  delighted 
to  see  him,  and  they  regained  so  long 
chatting  and  talking  over  old  times,  that 
when  my  father  rose  to  depart,  the  eve- 
ning had  already  set  in.  It  was  then  the 
latter  end  of  September,  and  the  sky, 
which  had  been  serene  and  beautiful 
during  the  day,  had  now  become  dark 
and  overclouded.  Already  distant  flashes 
of  lightning  were  to  be  seen,  and  a  few 
large  drops  of  rain  which  fell  proclaimed 


COUSIN  JOHN'S  FIRST   STORY.  93 

that  a  heavy  storm  was  at  hand.  Mr. 
Manby  tried  to  persuade  my  father  to 
remain  under  the  shelter  of  his  roof  foi 
thenigitt;  but  knowing  the  anxiety  mama 
would  be  in  during  his  absence,  he  deter- 
mined at  once  to  hasten  homewards 
Mr.  Manby  then  offered  to  despatch  a 
messenger  to  our  house  to  inform  us  of 
his  intention  of  not  returning  till  the 
next  dayf  but  my  father  would  not  for  an 
instant  hear  of  another  being  exposed 
for  his  sake  to  danger  from  which  he 
would  himself  shrink.  'And  besides/ 
said  he,  '  Hero  and  I  have  faced  so  many 
dangers  already,  that,  trusting  in  Provi- 
dence, we  need  not  fear  to  encounter 
even  so  stormy  a  night  as  this."  So, 
drawing  his  coat  about  him,  and  bending 


94  COUSIN  JOHN'S   FIRST   STORY. 

his  head  before  the  wind  and  rain,  off  he 
dashed  on  his  homeward  way. 

"  Soon  the  rain  descended  in  torrents, 
and  the  night  grew  darker  and  Barker, 
save  that  every  now  and  then  a  bright 
flash  of  lightning  would  illume  the  road 
with  a  noonday  light.  But  still  my  father 
urged  on  his  steed,  and  the  noble  animal, 
regardless  of  the  pelting  of  the  sharp 
hailstones  in  his  face,  or,  the  (Jeep  and 
appalling  roar  of  the  thunder  overhead, 
kept  bravely  on  his  way.  The  road 
now  lay  across  a  bleak  common  without 
tree  or  shelter  of  any  kind,  and  here  the 
full  fury  of  the  storm  burst  upon  them. 
My  father  kne\v  the  road  well,  for  it  was 
one  he  had  often  travelled  as  a  boy,  and  he 
had  not  for  an  instant  doubted  of  easily 


COUSIN  JOHN'S   FIRST  STORY.  95 

finding1  his  way  home ;  but,  deceived  by 
the  darkness  and  the  storm,  he  at  length 
found  himself  in  a  part  of  the  heath  en- 
tirely unknown  to  him.  Utterly  at  a  loss 
which  way  to  turn,  he  had  only  the  usual 
chance  of  benighted  travellers, — loosing 
the  rein,  and  leaving  it  to  chance  and  his 
horse's  instinct  to  extricate  him  from  his 
difficulty.  Left  to  himself,  Hero  sped  swift- 
ly across  the  heath;  but  soon  a  new  and 
unexpected  impediment  presented  itself. 
As  my  father  rode  on,  he  heard  the  rushing 
of  water,  and,  on  a  nearer  approach,  had 
some  difficulty  in  recognising  the  broad 
and  rapid  stream,  swollen  by  the  sudden 
deluge,  which  lay  before  him,  as  what  had 
in  the  morning  been  but  a  small  rivulet 
What  was  to  be  done  ?  My  father  had 


96  COUSIN  JOHX'S   FIRST   STORY. 

been  too  much  in  the  habit  of  overcoming 
difficulties  and  dangers,  by  boldly  facing 
them,  to  be  daunted  by  his  present  di- 
lemma ;  and  after  a  moment's  pause,  he 
chose  what  seemed  the  most  suitable  spot 
for  the  attempt,  and  pressed  his  horse  to 
the  stream.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life 
Hero  refused  to  obey.  When  brought  to 
the  edge  of  the  water  he  snorted  fearfully, 
tossed  his  head,  and  could  not  be  per- 
suaded to  attempt  the  passage.  At  length, 
on  being  again  and  again  urged,  he  sud- 
denly took  the  bit  in  his  teeth,  galloped 
some  distance  up  the  bank  of  the  stream? 
and  finally  plunged  in  at  a  spot^  where  the 
water  seemed  chafing  and  rushing  with 
more  force  and  rapidity  than  anywhere 
around.  Well  accustomed  to  the  manage- 


COUSIN   JOHN'S   FIRST   STORY.  97 

ment  of  his  horse,  my  father  kept  his 
broad  chest  to  the  stream  ;  for  it  required 
all  the  skill  and  resolution  of  both  horse 
and  rider  to  enable  them  to  reach  the 
opposite  bank. 

"  Mama  and  all  of  us  children  were  sit- 
ting up  listening  to  the  raging  of  the 
storm;  for  although  we  hoped  that  my 
father  would  have  staid  the  night  with  his 
friend,  still  we  were  in  too  great  a  state  of 
anxiety  and  uncertainty  to  think  of  sleep. 
It  was  now  past  twelve  o'clock,  and  mama 
was  just  insisting  upon  our  retiring  to 
rest, — though  by  the  anxious  look  of  her 
pale  face,  I  could  see  she  had  no  such  in- 
tention herself, — when  the  sounds  of  a 
horse's  hoofs  were  heard  in  the  avenue, 
and  the  next  instant  my  father  galloped 


98  COUSIN  JOHN'S   FIRST  STORY. 

up  to  the  door,  drenched  to  the  skin,  and 
covered  with  his  horse's  foam. 

"  After  our  first  joy  at  seeing  him  safe 
had  somewhat  subsided,  we  did  not  forget 
to  pat  and  praise  Black  Hero  for  the  part 
he  had  taken  in  the  night's  exertion.  It 
afterwards  appeared,  from  the  marks  of 
the  horse's  hoofs  on  the  spot,  that  my 
father  must,  in  the  darkness,  have  mis- 
taken the  usual  ford;  for,  had  he  suc- 
ceeded in  forcing  the  horse  into  that  part 
of  the  stream  which  he  first  attempted,  he 
would  probably  have  perished,  as  the  very 
stillness  of  the  water  was  there  only  occa- 
sioned by  its  greater  depth.  / 

"  I  must  tell  you  one  more  of  Hero's 
feats,  and  then  I  shall  have  done.  He 
performed  it  when  he  was  growing  old ; 


COUSIN  JOHN'S   FIRST   STORY.  99 

twelve  months  only  before  he  died.  It 
was  his  last  grand  deed,  but  it  was  his 
best  and  his  bravest. 

"  We  were  living,  at  the  time  the  inci- 
dent I  am  about  to  relate  to  you  occurred, 

on  the  coast  of shire.    Our  house  was 

beautifully  situated.  Behind  it  rich  ma- 
jestic woods  extended  further  than  the 
eye  could  reach;  while  before  it  lay  a 
smooth  verdant  plain,  gradually  sloping 
to  the  sea.  You  might  have  wandered 
for  hours  in  that  secluded  spot  without 
meeting  a  single  human  being.  The  sea 
presented  nearly  the  same  appearance, 
for  we  seldom  caught  more  than  a  distant 
view  of  some  far-off  vessel,  visible  but  for 
a  moment  above  the  horizon,  and  in  the 
next  lost  to  the  eye,  as  it  pursued  its 
course  of  business  or  pleasure. 


100  COUSIN  JOHN'S    FIRST   STORY. 

"  We  had  been  out  one  afternoon  roam- 
ing amongst  the  woods,  plucking  the  wild 
flowers,  playing  at  hide-and-seek  among 
the  trees,  running  and  jumping  about, 
laughing  till  we  made  the  place  ring 
again  with  our  merriment,  when  we  heard 
mama's  voice  calling  to  us  to  return  home. 
We  begged  of  her  to  allow  us  to  stay  out 
a  little  longer,  as  we  were  enjoying  our- 
selves so  much.  c  And  besides,  mama/ 
we  urged,  i  it  will  not  be  dark  yet  for  an- 
other hour.' 

<  But,  my  dear  children/  said  mama, 
i  you  must  come  in  an  hour  earlier  this 
evening,  for,  from  the  appearance  of  the 
sky,  we  are  fearful  that  a  heavy  storm  is 
at  hand.' 

"  So  bats,  balls,  and  hoops  were  collected 


COUSIN   JOHN'S    FIRST   STORY.  101 

together,  and  in  we  went ;  and  I  can  as- 
sure you  we  were  not  sorry  we  had  taken 
mama's  advice,  for  in  half  an  hour  it  began 
pouring  with  rain,  and  we  should  certainly 
have  got  wet  through,  had  we  not  gone 
in  when  we  did. 

"  In  the  evening  we  were  all  sitting  round 
the  table,  listening  eagerly  to  my  father, 
who  was  relating  some  adventure  which 
he  had  met  with  abroad  ;  when  suddenly 
a  bright  gleam  of  light  shone  before  the 
window,  and,  the  next  instant,  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  loud  report.  All  of  us  chil- 
dren fancied  it  must  have  been  a  flash  of 
lightning.  But  my  father  shook  his  head. 
i  No,'  said  he,  <  it  was  the  report  of  a 
gun;  it  came  from  the  sea:  it  must  have 
been  from  some  vessel  in  distress ;  and 


102  COUSIN  JOHN'S   FIRST   STORV. 

from  the  sound  she  must  be  close  on  our 
coast7 

"  Even  as  he  spoke  a  report  louder,  and 
apparently  nearer  still  than  the  former 
one,  burst  on  our  ears.  My  father  sum- 
moned his  servants  around  him,  caused 
bonfires  to  be  lit  to  show  the  position  of 
the  coast  to  those  on  the  ship,  and  has- 
tened to  the  beach,  to  see  what  further 
assistance  could  be  rendered. 

"  The  storm  had  now  somewhat  subsided, 
and  by  the  fitful  light  of  the  moon  he  dis- 
covered a  vessel,  the  masts  hanging  over 
her  sides,  a  complete  wreck,  driven  entirely 
at  the  mercy  of  the  winds  and  waves,  which 
were  fast  drifting  her  on  the  rocky  coast. 
Every  instant  brought  her  nearer  and 
nearer,  till  at  length  the  people  on  deck 


COUSIN  JOHN'S    FIRST   STORY.  103 

^ould  be  distinctly  seen,  in  every  attitude 
of  despair,  rushing  franticly  about,  and 
expecting  every  moment  to  be  over- 
whelmed in  the  raging  waves.  When  with- 
in only  a  short  distance  of  the  shore,  the 
ship  struck  violently,  and  became  firmly 
fixed  between  a  cleft  of  the  rock.  No  longer 
borne  up  by  the  buoyancy  of  the  water,  the 
waves  swept  uncontrolled  over  her,  threat- 
ening to  sweep  every  living  soul  from  the 
devoted  vessel.  The  shrieks  of  the  wretched 
crew  and  passengers,  men,  women,  and 
children,  were  perfectly  heart-rending; 
for  though  so  near  shore,  no  assistance 
could  be  rendered  to  them,  as  no  boat  was 
to  be  found  within  miles  of  the  spot. — 
*  Yet  something  must  be  done/  cried 
my  father ;  '  we  cannot  "see  our  fellow- 


104  COUSIN  JOHN'S    FIRST   STORY. 

creatures  perish  thus,  without  an  attempt 
to  save  them.' — '  Adam/  he  said  to  an  old 
servant,  who  had  formerly  been  a  soldier 
in  his  regiment,  '  saddle  Hero  instantly. 
I  will  gallop  over  to  the  next  village  to 
seek  assistance  of  some  kind.7 

"  Adam  soon  saddled  and  led  forth 
Hero,  who  neighed  and  tossed  his  noble 
head,  as  if  he  knew  that  a  fitting  moment 
had  arrived  to  call  forth  his  prowess.  My 
father  mounted,  and  was  on  the  point  of 
starting  off;  but  on  looking  again  at  the 
vessel,  he  checked  himself.  '  It  would 
be  useless/  he  said :  '  before  I  could 
reach  the  village  and  return  with  assist- 
ance?  the  rising  tide  will  have  buried 
every  vestige  of  the  wreck.  There  is 
but  one  chance ;  Hero  is  still  strong, 


COUSIN  JOHN'S  FIRST  STORY.  105 

and  I  doubt  not  could  swim  with  me  to 
the  vessel  F 

" i  Oh,  my  dear,  dear  master F  cried  old 
Adam,  '  tempt  not  so  the  fearful  waves ; 
many  a  noble  form  will  they  roll  over 
this  night.  Oh !  add  not  your  own  to  the 
number.  If  yonder  stout  vessel  could 
not  withstand  their  fury,  how  can  you 
expect  to  brave  them  ?' 

" i  We  must  trust  in  Providence, 
Adam,'  said  my  father ;  '  He  has  power 
to  save  and  to  destroy ;  to  confound  the 
mighty,  and  to  bid  the  weak  be  strong.7 

"  *  Then,  dear  Sir/  said  Adam, '  if  some 
one  must  go,  let  it  be  me.  I  am  an  old 
man.  I  have  neither  wife  nor  child  to 
mourn  for  me;  and  with  the  waves  that 
roll  over  him,  old  Adam  will  be  fovgotten.' 


106  COUSIN  JOHN'S   FIRST  STORY. 

" l  Nay,  nay ;  think  not  so  seriously  of  it, 
Adam/  replied  my  father.  <I  have  an  in- 
ward conviction  that  I  can  succeed  in 
saving  the  lives  of  these  poor  people; 
and  so  feeling,  I  should  be  criminal  were 
I  not  to  attempt  it;'  and  he  pressed 
forward  as  he  spoke  nearer  to  the 
breakers. 

";Oh,  stay,  master,  dear  master!'  urged 
Adam,  wringing  his  hands — but  in  vain. 

"My  father  urged  Hero  to  the  sea: 
the  animal  gave  one  noble  bound,  and 
plunged  amid  the  breakers.  For  an 
instant  man  and  horse  were  buried 
beneath  the  foaming  surf — in  the  next, 
they  emerged,  and  old  Adam  gazed  after 
them  with  straining  eyes,  as  from  time  to 
time  they  were  hidden  in  the  hollows  of 


COUSIN  JOHN'S   FIRST   STORY.  107 

the  waves,  or  were  seen  hurried    along 
upon  their  giant  crests. 

"  As  my  father  drew  near  the  wreck  he 
was  seen  by  the  persons  on  deck,  who 
at  first  imagined  it  was  a  boat  put  out  to 
their  rescue.  The  keen  eye  of  the  sailors, 
however,  soon  detected  the  reality,  and 
one  of  their  number  sprang  instantly  to 
the  vessel's  side  with  a  rope,  coiled  round 
his  arm,  which  he  prepared  to  cast  to 
their  deliverer  so  soon  as  he  could  ap- 
proach sufficiently  near  for  the  purpose. 
Nearer  and  nearer  still  the  bold  voyag- 
ers approached  the  vessel:  the  sailor's 
practised  hand  sends  the  rope  flying 
through  the  air,  uncoiling  as  it  flies.  It 
falls  within  my  father's  reach — he  grasps 
it,  and  turning  his  horse's  head  towards 


^08  COUSIN   JOHN'S   FIRST   STORY. 

the  shore,  he  bears  with  him  that  frail  cord 
on  which  depends  the  existence  of  the 
luckless  crew.  Yet  a  few  minutes,  and  the 
gallant  steed  and  his  bold  rider  will  be 
safe.  But  can  they  succeed  in  forcing 
their  way  through  the  foaming  breakers, 
widely  as  they  burst  on  the  beach  ?  Can 
they  succeed  in  landing,  despite  the  back- 
ward current  of  the  retreating  waves  ? 
They  are  nearly  safe  now;  but  ah,  the 
noble  steed's  strength  is  well-nigh  spent ! 
He  struggles,  struggles  hard,  but  in 
vain:  the  tide  prevails — One  moment 
more,  and  they  will  again  be  swept  to  sea ! 
But  no ;  old  Adam  rushes  in.  Bravely, 
bravely  done,  old  man! — He  seizes  the 
reins — one  effort  more — they  are  safe, 
they  are  safe ! 


COUSIN   JOHN'S   FIRST    STORY.  109 

"But  were  the  people  saved?"  said 
Willy ;  "  the  women  and  all  the  poor  little 
children  ?" 

"  They  were,  Willy.  By  means  of  the 
rope  there  was  no  great  difficulty  in 
drawing  them  safely  ashore.  Not  quite  so 
pleasantly,  perhaps,  as  if  they  had  landed 
in  a  boat;  though  I  did  not  hear  any 
of  them  complain  of  the  mode  adopted  for 
their  preservation,  for  they  were  thankful 
that  God  had,  in  his  mercy,  suffered  my 
father  to  be  the  means  of  rescuing  them 
from  otherwise  certain  destruction. 

"  After  a  time  Hero  began  to  feel  the 
influence  of  years,  and  of  the  different 
hardships  he  had  gone  through.  So  we 
had  him  turned  loose  in  a  rich  paddock, 
where  he  might  roam  about  at  his  ease 


110  COUSIN  JOHN'S   FIRST   STORY. 

We  had  a  stable  built  for  him  to  go  into 
when  he  pleased,  so  that  he  might  not  be 
exposed  to  the  inclemency  of  the  weather; 
and  there  he  passed  the  remainder  of  his 
days  in  peace  and  quietness;  for  my 
father  would  not  allow  him  to  be  ridden 
or  used  again  in  any  way.  He  became 
quite  celebrated  in  our  neighbourhood, 
and  when  any  visitors  came  they  always 
asked  permission  to  see  the  famous  horse. 
Hero  would  walk  gently  about,  as  if  he 
wrere  not  aware  of  their  presence :  he 
grew  daily  more  and  more  feeble,  and  the 
only  time  at  which  he  would  show  some- 
thing of  Ms  former  fire  was  when  he 
heard  his  old  master's  voice.  Then  he 
would  arch  his  neck,  give  a  loud  clear 
neigh,  and  come  galloping  up  in  such 


COUSIN  JOHN'S   FIRST   STORY.  Ill 

style,  that  you  would  hardly  fancy  him 
to  be  the  same  quiet  feeble  horse  he 
seemed  but  the  moment  before. 

"  One  morning  we  missed  him  at  his 
accustomed  spot  in  the  paddock ;  he  had 
not  left  his  stable.  We  found  him  there, 
stretched  on  his  side ;  his  eyes  closed, 
and  lying  so  motionless,  that,  but  for  his 
faint  breathing,  we  should  have  fancied 
him  already  dead. 

"  We  patted  him  and  spoke  to  him ; 
but  he  stirred  not,  till  at  length  we  went 
mournfully  to  call  my  father. 

" '  What,  Hero !  my  poor  Hero !'  said 
he :  l  Old  companion  of  my  toils ;  must 
we  then  part  at  last  ?  Many  friends  have 
I  known,  but  none  who  proved  truer  to 
me  than  thou !' 


112  COUSIN  JOHN'S   FIRST  STORY. 

"  The  old  steed  heard  his  beloved  mas- 
ter's voice ;  for  an  instant  his  eyes  opened ; 
he  pricked  his  ears,  and  he  gave  one  of 
his  loud  shrill  neighs — it  was  but  for  an 
instant ;  in  the  next  he  had  fallen  back  in 
a  struggle  to  start  to  his  feet. 

"  Soldiers  seldom  weep ;  but  I  saw  the 
generous  tears  coursing  down  my  fathers 
manly  cheeks,  as  he  turned  from  the  last 
look  at  his  faithful  companion  through 
many  a  toilsome  day. 

"  In  the  same  field  in  which  the  poor 
horse  died,  beneath  the  shade  of  a  wide- 
spreading  oak-tree,  we  dug  his  grave. 
With  the  softest  turf  we  raised  a  mound 
o'er  Hero's  head.  With  the  swreetest 
flowers  we  decorated  Hero's  tomb. 


COUSIN  JOHN'S    SECOND  STORY. 


FLUSH   AND   ROVER. 

THE  next  time  Willy  saw  his  cousin, 
he  begged  him  to  give  him  the  pictures 
that  he  had  drawn  of  the  good  horse, 
Hero,  as  the  tale  had  made  a  great 
impression  on  him,  and  he  wanted  to 
show  the  drawings  to  his  little  sisters, 
and  to  tell  them  all  about  them. 

"  Have  you  drawn  any  other  pictures, 
cousin  John,"  he  said,  "  since  I  saw  you 
last  ?  If  you  have,  pray  show  them  to 

me.     I  should  so  like  to  hear  the  his- 

8 


114  COUSIN  JOHN'S    SECOND   STORY. 

tory  of  any  other  favourites  you  may 
have  had." 

"  No.  Willy,"  said  his  cousin,  "  I  have 
not  drawn  anything  lately ;  but  come  with 
me  to  the  library,  and  I  will  show  you  a 
little  painting  by  a  far  better  artist  than 
I  am,  which  I  think  will  amuse  you." 

"  Oh,  what  two  dear  little  dogs ! '  cried 
Willy ;  "  I  do  so  love  dogs ;  and  there 
are  their  names,  too,  written  underneath ; 
i  Flush  and  Rover.'  I  know  which 
wrould  be  my  favourite." 

"  Which  do  you  fancy  most,  then  ?" 
inquired  his  cousin. 

"  Oh  !  Rover,  he  looks  such  a  nice 
handsome  little  fellow ;  I  am  sure  he 
must  be  the  best  dog." 

"  Well,  Willy,"  said  his  cousin,  "  you 


COUSIN  JOHN'S    SECOND    STORY.  115 

shall  hear  their  history,  and  then  you 
can  judge  for  yourself. 

"Flush  and  Rover  were  two  little 
spaniel  puppies,  the  only  remaining 
members  of  a  large  family;  their  bro- 
thers and  sisters  having  been  consigned 
soon  after  their  birth,  to  a  watery  grave ; 
poor  Flush  had  only  been  saved  from  a 
similar  fate  at  the  earnest  entreaty  of  his 
master's  daughter ;  and  Rover,  on  account 
of  his  promising  appearance,  his  fine  black 
and  white  spots  and  glossy  silken  ears, 
giving  every  prospect  of  his  becoming  a 
very  handsome  dog. 

"  The  two  puppies  began  very  early 
to  display  a  vast  difference  in  their  dis- 
positions. Rover  was  never  easy  unless  he 
were  scrambling  out  of  his  warm  bed, 


116  '  COUSIN  JOHN'S   SECOND  STORY. 

and  then  no  sooner  had  he  got  on  to  the 
cold  flag-stones  with  which  the  yard  was 
paved,  than  he  would  begin  the  most 
piteous  whining,  till  he  was  again  placed 
in  his  comfortable  house.  When  there, 
he  would  always  be  disturbing  the  sweet 
temper  of  his  brother  by  rolling  and 
jumping  over  him  when  he  felt  inclined 
for  a  nap,  and  so  upsetting  the  harmony 
of  the  family,  that  his  mother  was  often 
obliged  to  give  him  a  good  shaking  before 
he  could  be  brought  to  a  proper  sense  of 
duty  and  propriety.  Flush,  on  the  con- 
trary, was  of  an  extremely  sweet  and  easy 
disposition  ;  he  was  not,  perhaps,  quite 
so  handsome  nor  so  lively  as  his  brother, 
ind  though  at  a  proper  time  he  would 
join  in  his  gambols  and  be  as  frisky  and 


COUSIN  JOHN'S   SECOND   STORY.  117 

playful  as  possible,  yet,  in  general,  he 
was  so  good  and  staid,  that  his  mother 
felt  no  uneasiness  in  leaving  him  when 
her  duties  called  her  for  a  time  from 
home. 

"When  the  two  puppies  grew  old 
enough,  their  mother  was  separated  from 
them,  and  they  only  saw  her  now  and 
then,  as  their  master,  who  was  fond  of 
shooting,  used  to  take  her  out  to  assist 
in  finding  the  game ;  but  she  was  always 
glad  to  see  them  on  her  return,  and  even 
after  a  hard  day's  hunting  about  the 
fields,  would  be  quite  ready  for  a  game 
at  play  with  Flush  and  Rover.  Flush 
would  jump  and  frisk  about  her,  crouch 
himself  slyly  close  to  the  ground,  then 
run  up  to  her  and  put  his  little  paws 
- 


118  COUSIN   JOHN'S   SECOND    STORY. 

round  her  neck ;  and  the  party  would  be 
as  cheerful  and  happy  as  possible  till 
Rover,  not  content  with  their  innocent 
amusements,  would  mischievously  seize 
the  tip  of  his  good  mother's  tail  between 
his  sharp  teeth,  causing  her  to  give  a 
yelp  of  pain;  and  so  irritating  her,  that 
she  would  bestow  on  him  a  well-merited 
chastisement,  and  send  him  whining 
dismally  to  bed.  In  this  manner  did 
Rover  frequently  break  up  the  pleasure 
of  the  evening. 

"  Their  master  now  thinking  them  suffi- 
ciently advanced  in  strength  and  sagacity, 
took  them  out  with  him  to  assist  him  in 
his  sport.  Rover  was  quite  proud  and 
delighted  at  the  opportunity  of  display- 
ing his  superior  beauty  before  the  other 


COUSIN   JOHN:S    SECOND   STORY.  119 

dogs  in  the  field;  and  was  pertly  run- 
ning in  advance  of  the  others,  flourishing 
his  tail  and  looking  as  conceited  as  you 
please,  when  a  sharp  cut  from  his  master's 
whip  made  him  drop  it  quickly  between 
his  legs,  and  slink  behind  their  heels. 
When  they  reached  the  fields,  Rover 
got  still  further  into  disgrace.  The  duty 
the  dogs  had  to  perform,  was  to  keep 
within  a  moderate  distance  of  their 
master,  and  hunt  up  any  game  they 
might  find,  for  him  to  shoot  Flush, 
keeping  near  his  mother,  and  watching 
her  movements,  managed  very  well  for  a 
beginner ;  and  Rover's  giddiness  was  for 
a  time  kept  in  check  by  the  remembrance 
of  the  whip,  and  by  the  voice  of  his 
master,  when  he  saw  he  was  inclined  to 


120  COUSIN  JOHN'S   SECOND   STORY. 

roam  far  away.  Their  master  was  pleased 
with  their  conduct,  and  all  was  going  on 
tolerably  well,  although  as  yet  they  had 
found  no  game,  when,  in  an  unfortunate 
moment,  Rover  espied  two  dogs  at  play 
in  an  adjoining  field,  and,  deaf  to  his 
master's  cry  of  *  Back,  Rover !'  and  the 
angry  crack  of  his  whip,  thinking  only 
in  his  vanity  of  surprising  the  two  stran- 
gers by  the  beauty  of  his  glossy  coat,  off 
started  the  thoughtless  Rover.  Scarcely 
had  he  gone  half-way  across  the  field, 
when,  whir-r-r,  whir-r-r,  with  out-spread 
wings,  up  started  two  glistening  phea- 
sants, the  first  they  had  yet  seen.  Rover 
had  in  his  haste  nearly  run  over  them, 
and,  frightened  by  the  unexpected  sight, 
and  the  noise  they  made  in  rising,  back 


COUSIN  JOHN'S    SECOND    STORY.  121 

went  the  startled  and  disobedient  puppy  • 
but  something  worse  than  fright  was  in 
store  for  him ;  his  master,  angry  that  his 
vanity  had  been  the  cause  of  his  losing 
so  good  an  opportunity  of  filling  his 
game-bags,  took  out  his  whip,  and  began 
to  administer  so  sound  a  beating,  that 
the  hapless  Rover  yelped  and  howled, 
and  rolled  over  and  over  on  his  back. 
But  the  whip  this  time  was  applied  un- 
sparingly, till  Flush,  creeping  up  to  his 
master,  and  looking  wistfully  and  im- 
ploringly in  his  face,  seemed  to  beg  of 
him  not  to  beat  poor  Rover  any  more. 
As  to  Rover  himself,  he  now  turned 
quite  sulky  at  the  treatment  he  had 
received,  and  doggedly  refused  to  hunt 
any  more;  dropping  his  long  ears  and 


122  COUSIN   JOHN'S    SECOND    STOftt 

tail,  and  looking  quite  glum  and  ill- 
tempered.  At  last  when,  on  persisting 
in  declining  his  share  of  the  labour,  his 
master  again  showed  him  the  whip,  he 
looked  at  him  doubtfully  for  a  moment, 
and  then  fairly  took  to  his  heels.  Reach- 
ing home,  sore  and  sulky,  he  sneaked  into 
his  kennel,  and  would  not  come  out 
again  that  day. 

"  His  master  tried  him  again  and  again, 
but  always  found  him  so  perverse  and  dis- 
obedient, that  at  last  he  gave  up  all  hope 
of  Rover  being  useful  to  him  in  the  field, 
and  left  him  at  home  as  a  pet  dog  for  the 
children. 

"  Rover  was  now  vain  beyond  all  bounds ; 
he  was  washed  and  combed,  pampered 
and  fed  with  all  kind  of  dainties,  and. 


COUSIN   JOHN'S    SECOND   STORY.  123 

having  nothing  to  do  all  the  day  long, 
would  hardly  have  been  recognised  as  the 
companions  of  the  other  dogs. 

"  He  felt  his  own  importance,  and,  puffed 
up  with  conceit,  would  not  condescend 
any  longer  to  notice  his  relations.  They, 
however,  were  quite  as  comfortable  as  he, 
if  not  more  so ;  for  idleness  and  luxury 
do  not  always  bring  happiness.  True, 
they  worked  hard  all  day ;  but  when  they 
came  home  in  the  evening,  the  exercise 
they  had  taken  only  made  them  enjoy 
their  plain  food  the  more ;  whereas 
Rover,  with  ah1  kinds  of  dainties  before 
him,  hardly  ever  knew  what  it  was  to 
enjoy  a  hearty  meal.  At  first  he  took 
great  delight  in  the  pats  and  caresses  that 
were  bestowed  on  him  in  the  drawing 


124  COUSIN  JOHN'S   SECOND   STORY. 

room ;  but  overfeeding  and  indulgence 
did  not  tend  to  improve  his  temper,  and 
he  soon  began  to  consider  it  a  trouble  to 
be  roused  from  his  sleep,  to  show  himself 
off  to  any  friends  of  his  young  mistress 
who  happened  to  call.  With  all  his 
laziness,  he  still  retained  his  mischievous 
propensities  ;  and  though  so  well  fed,  yet 
nothing  pleased  him  more  than  to  watch 
for  an  opportunity  when  the  cook's  back 
was  turned,  of  stealing  something  nice 
from  the  dresser ;  and  when  successful 
in  this  trick,  he  wrould  waddle  off  with 
the  dainty  as  quickly  as  he  could,  and  if 
unable  to  eat  it  all  himself,  hide  it  under 
his  bed,  rather  than  let  the  other  dogs 
have  a  bit 

"  One  day  wiien  he  was  out  for  a  walk, 


COUSIN   JOHN'S    SECOND    STORY.  12l> 

he  saw  a  labouring  man  asleep  on  a  sunny 
bank.  Rover  went  sniffing  about,  and 
soon  discovered,  lying  by  his  side,  a 
parcel  tied  up  in  a  handkerchief  He 
dragged  it  a  little  distance  off,  and  with 
some  difficulty  succeeded  in  extracting 
its  contents;  but  what  was  his  disap- 
pointment at  finding  it  was  merely  only 
bread  and  cheese,  which  the  poor  man 
had  brought  from  home  for  his  dinner. 
Rover  had  much  too  fine  and  delicate  an 
appetite  to  think  for  an  instant  of  eating 
such  plain  fare ;  but,  actuated  by  the 
spirit  of  mischief,  he  began  scratching  a 
hole  in  which  to  bury  his  treasure.  So 
intent  was  he  on  this  work,  that  he  did 
not  perceive  the  owner  of  the  dinner 
wake  up,  and  stretch  out  his  hand  to  the 


126  COUSIN  JOHN'S   SECOND   STORY. 

place  where  he  had  left  his  provision. 
Not  finding  it  there,  the  man  arose  and 
looked  about  him,  and  seeing  how  Rover 
was  occupied,  had  no  difficulty  in  tracing 
the  thief!  Moving  cautiously  up  to  the 
unfortunate  dog,  almost  before  he  was 
a\vare  of  his  approach,  he  had  seized  him 
by  the  neck.  Rover  bit,  and  snapped? 
but  all  in  vain ;  his  capturer  held  him 
fast.  <  You  little  wretch/  said  he,  <  III 
teach  you  to  steal  my  dinner  again !' 
and,  after  cuffing  him  soundly,  he  tossed 
him  into  the  middle  of  a  large  muddy 
pond. 

"Spaniels  can  generally  swim  very 
well ;  but  Rover  was  so  unaccustomed  to 
exertion,  that  he  had  the  greatest  diffi- 
culty in  reaching  the  other  side. 


COUSIN  JOHN'S   SECOND   STORY.  127 

"  Covered  with  black  mud,  and  over- 
come with  fear,  pain,  and  fatigue,  he  at 
length  managed  to  reach  home.  •'  Oh 
my  poor  Rover/  said  his  kind  mistress, 
*  where  have  you  been  ?'  Rover,  how- 
ever, was  too  tired  and  too  much  ashamed 
of  his  appearance  to  wish  to  be  taken 
notice  of.  He  crept  off  to  bed,  and 
strove  to  forget  his  pain  and  mortifica- 
tion in  sleep. 

"  The  next  morning,  a  good  washing 
restored  his  silky  coat  to  its  former 
whiteness;  but  the  servant,  in  order  to 
save  so  much  additional  trouble,  (for 
whenever  Rover  went  out  he  was  sure  to 
get  into  some  scrape)  resolved,  in  future, 
to  prevent  him  leaving  the  house. 

"  Not  allowed  to  take  his  usual  exer- 


128      COUSIN  JOHN'S  SECOND  STORY. 

else,  though  that  was  moderate  enough? 
he  grew  fatter  and  more  ill-tempered 
every  day ;  everybody  in  the  house  quite 
disliked  him,  his  little  mistress  alone 
exeepted.  By  her  he  was  stiD  caressed 
and  fondled,  until  on  one  unfortunate  day 
when,  as  she  was  kindly  stroking  his 
head,  he  actually  snapped  at  the  hand  of 
his  benefactress. 

"  Her  papa  declared  he  would  not  keep 
so  surly  an  animal  another  day  in  the 
house,  and  Rover's  fate  was  on  the  point 
of  being  sealed  when  he  was  saved  by 
the  kind  intercession  of  his  mistress. 
At  her  request  it  was  agreed  he  should 
be  spared,  if  any  one  could  be  found 
who  would  take  him  with  his  present 
character. 


COUSIN   JOHN'S    SECOND    STORY.  129 

"  A  neighbouring  farmer  was  at  last 
induced  to  take  him  into  his  possession, 
who  said  his  bad  temper  would  not  so 
much  signify  to  him,  as  he  wanted  a  sharp 
little  dog  that  would  run  about  his  yard, 
and  bark  and  give  notice  whenever  stran- 
gers intruded  on  the  premises. 

"  The  fare  at  the  farmhouse  was  very 
different  to  what  Rover  had  been  accus- 
tomed to,  and  he  no  longer  ran  any 
chance  of  being  spoiled  by  over-feeding. 
On  the  contrary,  misery  awaited  him 
from  the  other  extreme.  His  new  master 
had  a  large  family  of  his  own  to  provide 
for,  and  what  scraps  they  left — and  they 
were  not  very  abundant — had  to  be  shared 
by  the  great  yard  dog.  Rover  had  to 
look  very  sharp,  or  his  hungry  fellow- 
9 


130  COUSIN   JOHN'S   SECOND   STORY. 

watchman  would  eat  it  all  up  before  he 
could  get  a  mouthful.  His  rage  and 
hunger  once  so  far  overcame  his  prudence, 
that  he  even  ventured  to  attack  his  large 
companion,  when  he  was  as  usual  eating 
a  most  undue  proportion  of  their  dinner. 
He  received,  however,  so  much  the  worst 
of  it  in  the  encounter  that  ensued,  that 
he  never  had  the  temerity  to  assert  his 
rights  in  that  quarter  a  second  time. 

"  Driven  to  his  own  resources,  he  was 
obliged  to  prowl  about  the  village  in 
search  of  prey,  and  soon  regaining  his 
former  activity,  became  the  most  trouble- 
some and  expert  thief  in  the  place.  His 
favourite  practice  was  to  wratch  round 
the  corner  of  the  street  in  which  the 
butcher's  shop  was  situated;  and,  let  it 

• 


COUSIN  JOHN'S   SECOND   STORY.  131 

oe  left  one  moment  unguarded,  a  mutton 
chop,  steak,  or  cutlet,  was  sure  to  vanish. 
So  daring  a  marauder  did  he  grow,  that 
no  goodwife  in  the  village  could  venture 
to  leave  her  cottage  door  open  for  an 
instant,  with  any  cooking  before  the  fire ; 
knowing,  from  experience,  that  Rover 
would,  without  ceremony,  invite  himself 
to  a  share  in  the  repast. 

"  The  farmer  had  so  many  complaints 
made  to  him  of  depredations  of  his  dog, 
that  he  would  willingly  have  got  rid  of 
his  bargain;  the  animal's  mischievous 
tricks  were,  however,  so  well  known,  that 
he  could  not  obtain  another  home  for  him 
in  the  neighbourhood. 

"  While  Rover's  ill  conduct  was  daily 
hinging  him  into  greater  disgrace,  Flush 


132  COUSIN  JOHN'S   SECOND   STORY. 

continued  happy  and  comfortable  in  his 
old  home,  and  gradually  fell  into  the 
place  his  silly  brother  had  forfeited.  He 
soon  became  a  greater  favourite  with  the 
family  than  poor  unfortunate  Rover  had 
ever  been;  for  kind  treatment,  instead 
of  making  him  cross  and  snappish,  seemed 
only  to  increase  his  natural  docility  and 
sagacity.  The  shooting  season  was  over, 
and  there  was  no  further  occupation  for 
him  in  the  field ;  but  he  generaly  accom- 
panied his  master's  family  in  their  walks ; 
and  a  most  amusing  companion  the  chil- 
dren found  him.  He  was  very  proud  to 
make  himself  useful,  and  would  never  let 
them  walk  in  peace  till  they  had  given 
him  something  to  carry;  leaping  and 
bounding  in  their  path  until  he  had  ob- 

> 


COUSIN   JOHN'S    SECOND    STORY.  133 

tained  possession  of  a  stick,  a  little  basket 
or  parasol.  Perfectly  satisfied  when  he 
was  thus  laden,  he  would  drop  his  ears, 
and  trot  along  by  their  side,  looking 
gravely  sensible  of  the  responsibility  of 
his  charge.  No  fear  of  Flush  losing  any- 
thing confided  to  him!  If  the  boys 
challenged  each  other  to  a  race,  and  he 
did  not  choose  to  be  behindhand  in 
sharing  the  sport,  he  would  bring  the 
stick  that  he  was  carrying,  lay  it  at  his 
master's  feet,  and  look  wistfully  and  be- 
seechingly at  him  till  he  resumed  it ;  but 
not  till  then  would  Flush  bound  away  to 
take  his  part  in  the  race. 

"  His  master  sometimes  purposely 
dropped  his  stick,  and,  calling  away  the 
dog,  would  walk  on,  leaving  it  in  the 


134  COUSIN  JOHN'S    SECOND   STORY. 

road  ;  and,  no  matter  what  the  distance 
he  had  only  to  make  a  sign  to  Flush,  when 
off  he  would  bound,  and  never  failed  to 
return  with  the  cane,  which  he  would  lay 
quietly  down  at  his  master's  feet,  and 
then  look  knowingly  up  at  him,  as  if 
asking  for  something  else  to  do.  The 
sagacious  little  dog  once  performed  a 
more  important  service  : — 

"  His  master  had  occasion  to  walk  to  a 
neighbouring  town  on  business,  and  took 
with  him  a  pocket-book  containing  papers 
of  great  value.  On  his  return  home  he 
found,  to  his  dismay,  that  the  book  was 
missing.  He  remembered  well  that  he 
had  had  it  safe  just  before  he  started  on 
his  return,  and  fancying  that  he  might 
by  chance  have  dropped  it  on  the  road, 


COUSIN  JOHN'S  SECOND  STORY.       135 

he  retraced  his  steps,  looking  carefully 
right  and  left,  in  the  hope  of  recovering 
the  lost  papers.  Flush,  who  had  run  out, 
jumping  and  frisking  up,  as  he  always  did, 
to  welcome  him  home,  now  accompanied 
him,  and  seemed  aware  that  something 
was  amiss.  He  ran  on  before  his  master, 
snuffing  about  till  he  came  to  a  stile 
about  a  mile  distant  from  home.  Here 
he  paused,  and  by  the  quick  motion  of 
his  bushy  little  tail,  his  master  was  in 
hopes  that  he  had  discovered  the  lost 
pocket-book.  But  no :  Flush  kept  hunt- 
ing round  and  round  the  same  spot  for 
some  time,  and  at  last  much  to  his  mas- 
ter's disappointment,  turned  into  a  path 
branching  off  in  a  contrary  direction  to 
the  one  he  had  traversed  in  the  morning. 


136      COUSIN  ,OHN'S  SECOND  STORY. 

" '  No  no,  Flush/  he  cried  ;  '  here ! 
here  ! 

"  But  Flush  continued  to  run  gaily  on 
with  his  nose  close  to  the  ground,  till  he 
found  his  master  was  not  following  him. 
Then  he  looked  back,  and  seemed  to  beg 
of  him  to  proceed ;  but  finding  he  did 
not  do  so,  began  jumping  and  barking ; 
running  on  a  little  distance,  and  then 
turning  round  and  wagging  his  tail  again. 
His  master,  at  length,  struck  by  his  con- 
duct, resolved  to  see  where  he  would  lead 
him. 

"  Flush  now  trotted  nimbly  along  the 
path  for  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  fur- 
ther, till  he  came  to  a  small  cottage, 
where  a  man  was  standing  at  the  door 
with  something  in  his  hand  wThich  he 


COUSIN  JOHN'S   SECOND   STORY.  137 

seemed  to  be  examining.  Flush  began 
jumping  and  barking  around  him,  and  his 
master,  on  his  approach,  was  overjoyed 
at  discovering  that  the  poor  man  held  in 
his  hand  the  lost  pocket-book.  He  had 
picked  it  up  but  a  few  minutes  before 
Flush  and  his  master  returned  to  the 
spot  where  it  had  been  lost. 

"  I  have  not  time  to  relate  any  more 
anecdotes  about  Flush  and  Rover  this 
morning,  Willy;  but  tell  me,  have  you 
changed  your  opinion  of  your  favourite 
dog?" 

Willy  laughed,  and  said,  he  "now 
liked  Flush  a  thousand  times  better 
than  Rover." 


THE   REVENGEFUL   INDIAN. 


"GocD  morming,  uncle  Charles/'  cried 
James  and  Frank  Thornton. — "  Good 
morning,  my  dear  boys,"  said  uncle  Charles 
in  return.  "  Which  of  you  have  I  to  thank 
for  cutting  open  the  leaves  of  Alison's 
History,  which  I  found  ready  for  my 
perusal  this  morning  ?" 

"Oh,  that  was  Frank's  doing,"  said 
James :  "  Frank  is  always  so  good  and 
thoughtful" 

"But  you  have  been  thoughtful  and 
industrious  too  this  morning,  James," 


THE  REVENGEFUL   INDIAN.  139 

said  his  brother;  "see,  uncle  Charles,  he 
has  fed  your  birds,  and  watered  your 
flowers,  and  then  he  has  placed  your  easy 
chair  and  footstool  for  you,  all  quite  snug 
and  comfortable." 

"Oh  yes,  uncle,  I  did  indeed,"  said 
James,  "  because  I  thought  you  would  be 
tired  this  morning,  as  you  were  out  so  late 
last  night" 

*•  Well,  you  have  both  been  very  good 
boys,"  said  their  uncle,  patting  them 
kindly  on  the  head ;  "  but,  master  James, 
how  comes  it  that  you  know  I  was  out  so 
late  last  night,  eh  ?  Those  twinkling  little 
eyes  of  yours  look  too  bright  this  morn- 
ing to  have  been  open  till  the  hour  at 
which  I  returned  home." 

"Why,    uncle    Charles,"    said    James, 


140  THE  REVENGEFUL  INDIAN. 

"  we  wanted  to  keep  ourselves  awake  till 
you  came  home  last  night ;  so  when  we 
were  in  bed  we  began  telling  one  another 
all  the  tales  we  could  think  of,  and  that 
kept  us  awake  for  some  time ;  and  after 
that  we  agreed  to  speak  to  one  another 
every  two  or  three  minutes,  just  to  pre- 
vent ourselves  falling  asleep ;  but,  some- 
how or  other,  we  forgot  to  do  so,  and  we 
dropped  off  before  we  were  aware  of  it, 
till  we  recollect  hearing  the  clock  strike 
eleven,  so,  as  you  had  not  come  home 
then,  we  fancied  you  would  be  late.  But 
had  you  a  pleasant  party,  uncle  ?  and  was 
that  funny  old  Indian  gentleman  there  ? 
and  did  he  tell  any  of  his  dreadful 
stories  ?" — 

"Gently,  gently,  you  little  chatterbox," 


THE   REVENGEFUL   INDIAN.  141 

cried  uncle  Charles ;  "  one  question  at  a 
time,  if  you  please.  We  passed  a  very 
pleasant  evening  certainly  ;  the  funny  old 
Indian  gentleman,  as  you  call  him,  formed 
one  of  the  party,  and  he  related  a  great 
number  of  anecdotes." 

"  But  were  they  dreadful  stories  ?"  said 
James,  "Do  you  know,  uncle,  I  am  very 
fond  of  dreadful  stories." 

"  Oh,  how  can  you  say  so  James !"  said 
his  brother;  "you  know  I  caught  you  the 
other  day  with  the  tears  in  your  eyes,  whilst 
you  were  reading  the  account  of  a  poor 
family  who  had  been  buried  in  the  snow." 

"  Ah !  I  know  I  could  not  help  crying 
a  little  when  I  read  that  story,"  said 
James,  "  because  it  seemed  so  very  sad 
for  the  poor  people  to  be  ruined  as  they 


142  THE   REVENGEFUL   INDIAN. 

were,  after  they  had  been  good  and  indus- 
trious for  so  many  years  before.  Did  it 
not,  uncle  ?  But  I  do  not  think  I  quite 
meant  to  say  dreadful  stories ;  I  think  I 
meant  to  say,  I  like  interesting  stories, 
about  people  who  have  escaped  from 
prison,  or  from  wild  beasts,  or  any  kind 
of  danger ;  yes,  I  think  I  like  interesting 
stories,  uncle." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you  do,"  said  uncle 
Charles,  smiling,  "  and  I  rather  think  I  can 
recollect  such  a  tale  for  you,  and  one  re- 
lated too  by  your  friend,  the  Indian  gen- 
tleman. The  worst  of  it  is,  that  I  did 
not  hear  the  commencement  of  the  tale, 
so  I  do  not  know  whether  it  happened  to 
a  friend  of  Major  Philips,  or  whether  he 
had  heard  or  read  of  it  However,  I 


THE  REVENGEFUL  INDIAN.  143 

suppose  these  facts  will  not  be  of  much 
importance  to  you,  as  the  tale  is,  I  think, 
interesting-,  and  had  well  nigh  proved 
dreadful.  So,  boys,  take  your  seats,  and 
I  will  begin  at  once : — 

"  In  the  summer  of  the  year  18 — ,  the 
Indian  villages,  north  of  the  Ganges,  were 
kept  in  a  continual  state  of  anxiety,  in 
consequence  of  the  quantity  of  wild  ani- 
mals which  infested  their  neighbourhood. 
The  season  was  one  of  unusual  drought, 
and  the  wild  beasts,  unable  to  obtain  a 
supply  of  water  in  their  usual  haunts, 
descended  in  whole  herds  to  the  plains.  A 
British  detachment  was  stationed  on  the 
outskirts  of  one  of  these  villages,  and  day 
after  day,  distressing  and  appalling  ac- 
counts were  brought  in  of  the  ravages 


144  THE  REVENGEFUL   INDIAN. 

which  were  nightly  exercised  on  the 
flocks  and  herds  of  the  poor  Indians.  As 
yet,  fortunately,  no  human  being  had 
fallen  into  their  clutches ;  but  still,  after 
nightfall,  the  roars  and  savage  cries  of  the 
various  animals  grew  sufficiently  alarm- 
ing, to  prevent  any  one  from  venturing 
abroad.  A  grand  hunt  was  therefore 
proposed  by  the  officers  of  the  English 
regiment,  at  which  several  of  the  most 
influential  of  the  Indians  in  the  neigh- 
bouring villages,  consented  to  assist. 

"  Colonel  N.,  who  commanded  the  Bri- 
tish detachment,  was  appointed  leader 
of  the  party,  as  he  was  well  skilled  in  the 
Indian  hunting-field.  Elephants  were 
collected  from  all  quarters,  arid  they,  with 
the  mounted  horsemen,  formed  the  main 


THE  REVENGEFUL   INDIAN.  145 

body  of  attack ;  a  large  party  of  Indians 
accompanied  them  as  guides  and  beaters; 
and  another  party  was  sent  in  advance 
with  tents  and  provisions,  as  the  hunt 
was  arranged  to  last  for  two  days. 

"  The  greatest  success  attended  them 
in  their  expedition.  In  addition  to  de- 
stroying a  great  number  of  beasts  of  prey, 
they  secured  enough  game  to  support  the 
surrounding  villages  for  some  days.  The 
game,  it  was  agread  to  distribute  equally 
between  the  English  party  and  the  In- 
dians ;  and  toward  the  evening  the  tents 
were  pitched,  and  the  distribution  of  spoil 
commenced.  All  was  proceeding  ami- 
cably, till  unfortunately  the  honour  of 
having  slain  the  largest  and  most  fero- 
cious of  the  wild  beasts,  was  mutually 
10 


146  THE  REVENGEFUL   IN 


claimed  by  one  of  the  English  soldiers 
and  an  Indian  chief  Neither  would 
yield  the  point  ;  high  words  ensued,  the 
Indian  laid  his  hand  on  his  knife,  and  the 
English  soldier  struck  him.  The  dark 
eyes  of  the  Indian  flashed  with  rage,  as 
with  his  bare  knife  in  his  hand  he  sprang 
on  his  unarmed  antagonist  ;  and,  had  not 
Colonel  N.  rushed  in  and  struck  his  arm  in 
the  air,  he  would  most  probably  have  slain 
the  soldier  on  the  spot 

"  The  rest  of  the  party  now  interferedr 
and  endeavoured  to  restore  the  harmony 
of  the  meeting.  But  a  gloom  settled  on 
the  Indian  chiefs  brow.  When  the 
hunting  meal  was  cooked,  he  touched  no 
portion  of  it,  but  preserved  a  sullen 
silence.  The  English  officers  strove  again 


THE  REVENGEFUL  INDIAN.  147 

and  again  to  produce  a  reconciliation,  but 
without  effect. 

" '  No/  he  said,  '  the  insult  put  upon 
him  by  the  soldier  he  could  have  over- 
looked,— he  was  a  low  man,  mere  dirt, — 
but  to  have  his  avenging  arm  struck 
from  its  destined  vengeance  by  the  great 
English  chief — he  would  not  forgive  it !' 
— After  a  time,  however,  he  seemed  to 
relax  a  little ;  acknowledged  that  his 
people  could  not  shoot  like  ours;  and 
we  were  superior  in  every  respect ;  and 
even  consented  to  receive  the  apology 
of  the  soldier  who  had  struck  him. 

"  The  English  were  glad  to  have  thus 
arranged  an  affair  which  they  at  first 
thought  might  have  met  with  a  serious 
termination,  and  proceeded  to  fix  the 


148  THE   REVENGEFUL  INDIAN. 

tents  for  the  night.  Colonel  N.  retiring 
from  the  rest  of  the  party,  threw  himself 
on  a  quiet  bank  to  refresh  himself  after 
the  toil  of  the  day.  The  still  evening  air, 
the  quiet  hum  of  the  insects,  and  his 
previous  exertions  all  tended  to  produce 
a  desire  for  sleep,  and  he  was  almost  un- 
consciously falling  into  a  dose,  when  he 
,  was  startled  by  a  rustling  in  the  bush 
immediately  behind  him.  The  idea  in- 
stantly occurred  to  him,  that  the  Indians, 
knowing  him  to  be  alone,  had  followed 
him,*  and  were  about  to  avenge  upon 
him  the  insult  he  had  offered  their  chief 
He  sprang  to  his  feet,  seized  his  gun,  and 
cocked  it  as  he  rose.  But  all  was  now 
quiet,  nothing  was  to  be  seen,  not  a  leaf 
seemed  to  stir;  and  the  Colonel  was 


THE   REVENGEFUL   INDIAN.  149 

about  to  turn  away,  thinking  that  he 
must  have  been  deceived  by  his  half 
waking  fancies,  when  he  saw  a  pair  oi 
piercing  eyes  gazing  fiercely  on  him.  A 
second  glance  proved  them  to  belong  to 
one  of  the  most  deadly  snakes  of  India 
The  creature  was  just  uncoiling  itself 
from  a  sapling,  and  preparing  to 'spring 
npon  its  prey.  The  Colonel  was  a  brave 
man ;  he  had  faced  dangers  in  the  battle 
field ;  and,  in  the  hunting  parties,  he  was 
always  the  first  and  the  bravest.  But, 
as  he  looked  on  his  deadly  foe,  the  big 
drop  stood  out  on  his  brow,  and  his  knees 
trembled  beneath  him.  Another  moment, 
and  the  reptile  would  spring  upon  him ; 
and  he  well  knew  that  but  one  bite  of  its 
venomous  fangs  would  be  certain  death. 


150  THE  REVENGEFUL   INDIAN. 

With  an  effort,  he  recovered  himself, 
brought  his  gun  to  his  shoulder,  and  fired. 
The  snake  writhed  convulsively  on  the 
ground ;  but  the  Colonel,  knowing  the 
tenacity  of  life  possessed  by  these  reptiles, 
ventured  not  near  it,  but  hastened  to  pro- 
cure the  assistance  of  his  companions, 
wrho,  with  the  Indians,  soon  destroyed  it. 

"The  Colonel wras  complimented  for  the 
presence  of  mind  he  had  displayed,  and 
the  service  he  had  rendered  the  commu- 
nity by  destroying  so  dangerous  a  serpent. 

"<  The  English  Chief  is  great ;  he  is 
brave/  said  the  old  Indian :  i  He  is  as 
the  simoom  of  the  desert ;  what  can  resist 
him  ?  My  brother  has  concealed  the  insult 
he  offered  me — he  shall  be  honoured  as 
he  deserves.  Let  the  snake  be  hung 


THE  REVENGEFUL  INDIAN.  151 

before  the  entrance  of  his  tent?  as  a  proof 
of  his  skill  I  myself  will  place  it  there 
with  my  own  hands.' 

"  The  English  party  were  well  pleased 
with  the  idea ;  and  were  gratified  to  think 
that  the  Indian  had  so  soon  forgiven  the 
insult  he  considered  himself  to  have  re- 
ceived. 

"  But  they  little  dreamed  of  the  savage 
intentions  entertained  by  the  wily  Indian. 
He  had  seen  at  a  glance  that  the  dead 
snake  was  a  female,  and  his  experience 
told  him  that  its  male  companion  was  not 
far  off,  and  would  on  missing  its  mate, 
no  doubt  endeavour  to  trace  her  out, 
With  well  assumed  kindness,  therefore, 
he  urged  the  party  to  return  to  the  tents, 
whilst  he  seized  the  snake  and  followed 


152  THE   REVENGEFUL   INDIAN. 

them :  taking  care,  as  he  did  so,  to  trail 
the  mangled  reptile  along  the  grass, 
thereby  making  it  easy  for  her  companion 
to  discover  her  track. 

rf  As  the  hunt  was  to  be  renewed  the 
following  day,  the  English  party  retired 
early  to  rest.  One  by  one  the  different 
hunters  repaired  to  their  beds,  and, 
amongst  the  rest,  Colonel  N.,  with  the 
dead  snake,  as  a  trophy  of  his  skill,  still 
hanging  in  his  tent ;  and  none  were  to  be 
seen  abroad  but  a  few  sleepy  soldiers 
appointed  as  sentinels. 

u  The  revengeful  Indian,  however,  did 
not  sleep ;  and,  concealed  behind  a  brake, 
he  stood  anxiously  awaiting  the  comple- 
tion of  his  abominable  project.  As  he 
had  calculated,  so  it  fell  out;  the  male 


THE   REVENGEFUL  INDIAN.  153 

snake,  on  its  return,  haa  missed  its  com- 
panion, and  traced  her  to  the  bounds  of 
the  encampment  Whilst  the  hunters 
were  stirring,  it  had  been  prevented  from 
approaching  nearer ;  but  now  that  all  was 
quiet,  the  Indian  hugged  himself  with 
savage  glee,  as  he  saw  the  deadly  creature 
slowly  crawling  within  the  circle  of  the 
tents.  Sometimes  it  would  pause  a  mo- 
ment, as  if  in  doubt,  and  he  felt  fearful 
that  it  would  change  its  course ;  but  no : 
true  to  its  purpose,  it  returned  to  the 
trail,  and  the  Indian  again  rejoiced  as  he 
saw  it  drawing  its  undulating  body  nearer 
and  nearer  the  Colonel's  tent.  When  it 
arrived  there,  it  raised  its  crest,  and  a 
low  hissing  sound  issued  from  its  dis- 
tended jaws.  Cautiously  it  moved  roun4 


151  THE  REVENGEFUL   INDIAN. 

and  round,  seeking  for  a  spot  at  which  to 
enter,  till  it  came  to  the  opening.  There 
it  seemed  again  to  hesitate,  and  then 
gently  forced  its  head  beneath  the  folds 
of  the  tent  All  was  quiet ;  and,  inch  by 
inch,  it  drew  after  it  the  rest  of  its  body. 
"  The  eyes  of  the  Indian  gleamed  with 
savage  delight;  he  drew7  a  long  deep 
inspiration;  for,  as  he  had  watched  the 
movements  of  the  serpent,  scarcely  had 
he  dared  to  breathe,  so  fearful  was  he  of 
disturbing  its  progress.  But  now  his 
triumph  was  complete — his  revenge  was 
at  hand.  The  Englishman,  who  had 
dared  to  insult  him,  was  sleeping  in  all 
the  calmness  of  imagined  security ;  yet, 
let  him  make  but  the  slightest  movement 
and  the  fangs  of  one  of  the  most  deadly 


THE  REVENGEFUL   INDIAN.  „       155 

of  Indian  serpents  would  be  instantly 
fixed  upon  him. 

"  Long  and  anxiously  the  Indian  waited 
for  the  completion  of  his  hopes,  till  at 
last,  his  patience  becoming  exhausted, 
he  was  rising  from  his  hiding-place,  and 
cautiously  approaching  the  Colonel's  tent, 
when,  suddenly,  a  sharp  cry  burst  from 
within.  The  folds  of  the  tent  were  vio- 
lently agitated,  and  the  voice  of  his  vic- 
tim rang  on  his  ears.  He  waited  not  to 
hear  more :  with  a  loud  exulting  laugh 
of  savage  glee  and  triumph,  he  rushed 
from  the  encampment,  and  sprang  into 
the  jungle. 

"  Had  he  but  waited  a  moment  longer 
he  would  have  found  that  his  triumph 
was  not  quite  so  complete  as  he  had  ima- 


156  THE  REVENGEFUL  INDIAN. 

gined.  A  large  faithful  dog,  which  always 
accompanied  the  Colonel,  had,  unknown 
to  the  Indian,  taken  up  its  place  for  the 
night  at  the  foot  of  his  master's  bed.  The 
noiseless  approach  of  the  snake  had  not 
disturbed  the  faithful  creature,  till  it  was 
within  a  few  paces  of  the  couch ;  then, 
as  the  serpent  was  in  the  very  act  of 
making  its  spring,  the  brave  dog  seized 
it  by  the  throat. 

Colonel  N.,  roused  from  his  sleep  by 
the  violent  struggle  that  took  place 
between  the  dog  and  his  formidable  foe, 
rushed  from  the  tent,  calling  the  sentinels 
to  his  assistance.  They  came  quickly, 
Avith  swords  and  muskets,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  destroying  the  serpent,  though 
not  without  some  difficulty,  as  the  crea- 


THE  REVENGEFUL   INDIAN.  157 

ture  had  wound  itself  so  closely  round 
the  dog,  that  they  could  hardly  kill  it 
without  injuring  the  latter.  However, 
having  at  last  effected  its  destruction, 
they  turned  their  attention  to  the  dog. 
The  brave  animal  was  well-nigh  spent 
with  the  struggle,  and  the  crushing  folds 
of  the  snake ;  but,  as  he  had  seized  his 
foe  near  the  neck,  as  he  had  never  relin- 
quished his  hold,  and  as  there  was  no 
apparent  wound  to  be  found  upon  him, 
his  master  hoped  that  no  serious  effect 
would  ensue.  He  carried  him  gently  to 
his  own  bed  and  laid  him  there.  The 
poor  dog  seemed  grateful  for  his  master's 
kindness ;  he  licked  his  hand,  and  looked 
fondly  up  in  his  face ;  ,but  he  could  not 
prevent  a  moan  of  pain  from  breaking 


158  THE  REVENGEFUL   INDIAN. 

from  him.  He  became  more  restless 
every  minute ;  his  eyes  distended,  and  the 
foam  rolled  from  his  mouth.  He  re- 
mained thus  for  the  space  of  half  an 
hour  ;  and,  as  the  symptoms  then  became 
more  and  more  apparent,  Colonel  N, 
was  urged  by  his  companions  to  shoot 
the  poor  animal,  as  it  was  evident  that 
the  serpent  had  inflicted  some  unseen 
wound.  But  he  could  not  bring  himself  to 
destroy  the  brave  dog  that,  but  the  mo- 
ment before,  had  saved  his  life — that  had 
so  long  been  the  companion  of  his  daily 
walks — while  there  remained  any  chance 
of  its  recovery.  But,  as  the  venom  in- 
flicted by  the  snake  coursed  through  its 
veins,  the  struggles  and  agony  of  the 
poor  dog  increased  in  violence;  and  death, 


THE  REVENGEFUL  INDIAN.  159 

within  one  short  hour,  put  a  period  to 
its  sufferings. 

At  daybreak  the  next  morning,  the 
English  party  assembled  to  resume  their 
sports;  but,  to  their  surprise,  the  Indians 
had  all  disappeared.  It  was  afterwards 
known  that  they,  in  common  with  the 
offended  Indian,  were  acquainted  with 
his  treacherous  project ;  and,  fearful  of 
their  participation  in  it  being  discovered, 
had  silently  departed  to  their  homes  in 
the  dead  of  the  night 

"  This,  boys,  as  far  as  I  can  recollect, 
is  the  story  I  heard  last  night.  I  hope  it 
has  amused  you.  What  say  you,  James? 
is  it  dreadful  enough  for  your  taste  ?" 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  uncle ;  thank  you  for 
the  trouble  you  have  taken  to  amuse  us. 


160  THE  REVENGEFUL   INDIAN. 

It  was  a  very  nice  story  indeed  ;  though 
I  wish  it  had  not  ended  quite  so  dread- 
fully as  it  did.  I  am  so  sorry  to  think 
that  the  good  dog  should  have  been 
killed, — and  directly  after  his  brave  con- 
duct, too.  But  you  "have  not  told  us 
the  name  of  the  snakes." 

"  They  were  of  the  kind  called  the  Cobra 
di  Capello,  or  hooded  snake ;  and  are  the 
most  deadly  of  India's  serpents.  Some- 
times they  are  also  called  dancing  snakes? 
from  their  being  carried  about  for  show 
by  the  natives  who  play  some  of  their 
rough  airs,  of  which  the  snakes  are  so 
enamoured,  that,  for  the  time  they%ill 
forget  their  deadly  propensities,  and  keep 
time  to  the  music  by  the  motions  of 
their  bodies.  By  the  same  means,  the 


THE  REVENGEFUL   INDIAN.  161 

Indian  snake-charmers  are  said  to  be  able 
to  lure  them  from  their  lurking-places, 
when  they  wish  to  destroy  them," 

"And  is  there  no  cure  for  their  bite, 
uncle  ?;'  * 

"  No,  not  that  I  am  aware  of;  in  fact, 
so  strong  is  the  poison  which  accompa- 
nies their  bite,  that  people  seldom  live 
more  than  an  hour  after  its  infliction. 
But,  bless  my  heart,"  said  Uncle  Charles, 
drawing  out  his  watch,  "  how  quickly  the 
morning  has  passed.  Why,  you  little 
rogues,  you  have  been  taking  up  all  my 
time,  and  I  have  half  a  dozen  visits  to 
make  before  dinner.  But,  boys,  you  will 
find  a  long  account  of  the  snake,  in  a 
work  on  Natural  History,  which  lies  on 
the  library  table.  You  cannot  amuse 
11 


162  THE   REVENGEFUL  INDIAN. 

yourselves  better  than  by  searching  it 
out,  and  reading  it  during  my  absence. 
"Now,  Edward,  my  hat:  and  my  cane, 
James.  Thank  you,  thank  you,  my  dear 
boys.  Good  bye — good  bye." 


EMILY  MAYNARD. 


EMILY  MAYNARD  was  engaged  in 
reading  to  her  little  cousins  a  new  book 
of  poems,  which  their  papa  had  just  given 
them.  They  were  very  pretty  poems; 
full  of  truth,  and  yet  simple,  and  suited 
to  the  age  of  children,  such  as  you,  my 
dear  little  readers.  Some  of  them  were 
lively;  others  were  of  a  more  serious 
character.  There  was  one  called  "  The 
Mother's  Grave."  It  was  a  tale  of  a 
little  girl  whose  mother  had  died  early 
Emily  read  it  aloud  ;  and,  as  she  read,  her 


164  EMILY  MAYNARb. 

voice  faltered,  and  a  tear  stole  down  her 
cheek.  Her  young  listeners  cried ;  partly 
from  the  story,  and  partly  because  they 
saw  their  cousin  weep.  Emily  bent  over 
them  for  an  instant;  and,  kissing  them 
affectionately,  dried  their  eyes.  "It 
is  a  melancholy  story,"  she  said,  "and 
brought  back  so  forcibly,  to  my  mind, 
the  time  when  I  was  a  little  girl  like  you, 
my  dear  children,  and  when  I  also  had 
a  kind  mama  to  love  me,  that  I  could  not 
help  weeping.  It  is  a  thought  that 
always  makes  me  sad ;  and  yet,  though 
painful  to  dwell  upon,  I  will  relate  to  you 
the  story  of  my  early  years ;  for  it  may 
serve  as  a  lesson  to  you,  and  save  you 
from  the  regret  which  I  have  suffered/' 
<  I  was,  at  the  time  I  refer  to,  rather 


EMILY  MAYNARD.  165 

younger  perhaps  than  yourselves.  My 
father's  pursuits  called  him  much  from 
home,  and  I  was  left  entirely  under  the 
care  of  my  mother ;  and  oh,  how  kind  a 
mother  !  It  was  impossible  for  any  child 
to  be  otherwise  than  fond  of  her. 

"  You  may  fancy,  that,  at  my  age,  I 
could  have  had  few,  if  any,  opportunities 
of  making,  by  any  acts  of  mine,  a  fit 
return  for  all  a  mother's  love.  But  what 
does  a  parent  look  for,  in  return  for 
the  many  sleepless  nights  and  watchings 
during  infancy, — for  the  sacrifice  of  health 
— for  the  loss  of  all  pleasure — for  seeking 
no  greater  happiness  than  the  welfare  of 
her  child  ?  She  asks  but  a  small,  a  very 
small  return — love  and  obedience. 

"  But  though  I  did  love  my  mama,  and 


166  EMILY  MAYNARD. 

very  tenderly  too,  yet  I  did  not  always 
do  as  she  bid  me.  I  had  a  very  foolish, 
wicked  way  of  arguing  with  her,  when 
she  told  me  to  do  anything,  instead  of  at 
once  trying  cheerfully  to  execute  her 
wishes.  For  instance,  she  would  perhaps 
say,  i  Go,  Emily,  and  fetch  me  the  little 
parcel  which  you  will  find  in  my  room :  it 
is  on  my  dressing-table.'  Then,  I  would 
answer,  '  I  shall  have  finished  my  doll's 
dress  in  a  minute,  mama,  and  then  I  will 
run  and  fetch  your  parcel.'  '  Emily,  my 
dear,'  mama* would  reply,  <I  want  the 
parcel  now :  go  at  once.'  And  then,  after 
various  idle  excuses,  I  at  last  did  what  I 
ought  to  have  done  at  first. 

"But  I  did  not  long  have  an  opportu- 
nity of  behaving  in  this  naughty  manner. 


EMILY  MAYNARD.  167 

Poor  mama  was  suddenly  taken  ill ;  so 
ill,  that  the  doctor  would  not  even  let 
me  go  into  her  room.  And  then,  when 
I  was  left  alone,  I  thought  how  often  I 
had  vexed  her,  and  many  little  disobe- 
dient acts,  which  I  thought  nothing  of  at 
the  time,  rose  up  in  my  memory,  now 
that  my  dear  mama  might  be  snatched 
away  from  me.  I  asked  the  nurse  every 
minute  in  the  day  how  mama  was,  and 
begged  of  her  to  let  me  go  in,  and  wait 
upon  her.  But  she  told  me  I  could  not 
see  mama :  that  perhaps  she  would  be 
better  shortly,  and  could  then  be  able 
to  see  me  again.  So  I  sat  down  on  the 
stairs,  leading  to  mama's  room,  and  sobbed 
bitterly,  for  I  would  have  given  anything 
to  have  waited  upon  dear  mama,  and  to 


168  EMILY  MAYNARD. 

have  run  on  the  messages  which  before 
I  used  to  think  so  troublesome.  I  waited 
there  till  the  doctor  came,  and  prayed  of 
him  to  let  me  go  into  the  room,  and  I 
would  be  so  good.  He  laid  his  hand 
gently  on  my  head :  '  Not  to-day,  my 
little  girl/  he  said;  'poor  mama  must  not 
be  disturbed :  she  is  better  than  she  has 
been,  but  is  still  very  weak :  to-morrow, 
perhaps,  or  the  next  day,  I  can  let  you 
see  her,  but  you  must  promise  me  to  be 
very  quiet.'  Oh,  how  thankful  I  was 
when  the  good  doctor  fulfilled  his  pro 
mise,  and  led  me  softly  into  mama's 
room.  But,  oh !  poor  mama !  she  looked 
so  wan,  and  so  pale,  and  smiled  so  feebly 
upon  me,  that  I  could  not  help  sobbing 
aloud :  I  thought  my  heart  would  break. 


EMILY  MAYNARD.  169 

*  Oh  mama,  mama/  I  cried ;  '  why  have 
they  kept  me  from  you  so  long  ?  I  will 
be  very  good  if  you  will  let  me  come  and 
wait  upon  you.  I  will  never  again  be  so 
naughty  and  troublesome  as  I  have  been. 
Will  you  let  me  stay  with  you,  dear 
mama  ?  Oh  say  you  will.'  Mama  clasped 
me  in  her  arms.  '  Bless  thee!  bless 
thee!  my  child,'  I  heard  her  murmur; 
and  I  felt  her  hot  tears  fall  on  my  neck." 
Emily  paused,  for  her  heart  was  full,  and 
her  litttle  cousins'  cheeks  were  suffused 
with  tears.  "  And  did  your  poor  mama 
ever  get  better  ?"  said  they.  "  Alas !  no/' 
said  Emily;  "she  relapsed,  and  grew 
daily  weaker  and  weaker  ;  but  while  she 
lived,  I  \vas  always  with  her ;  and  it  was 
some  consolation  to  me  to  think  that  I 


170  EMILY  MAYNARD. 

could  be  near  her,  and  always  at  hand  to 
attend  to  her  wants.  But  now,  ray  dear 
children,  this  has  been  a  sad  subject  to 
us  all ;  yet,  let  me  hope  that  it  will  do 
some  good.  You  have  a  kind  papa  and 
mama  to  love  you.  Let  your  conduct 
towards  them  be  such,  that  you  will,  at 
any  time  be  able  to  look  back  upon  it 
without  self-reproach ;  so  that  when  the 
time  shall  come,  that  it  may  please  your 
Heavenly  father  to  call  those  dear  pa- 
rents to  another  world,  your  grief  at 
losing  them  may  not  be  heightened  by 
the  remembrance  of  any  act  of  disobe- 
dience or  unkindness  to  them  in  this." 


HENRY  MORTON. 


LITTLE  HENRY  MORTON  was  a  very 
nice  little  boy ;  but  he  was  not  very  fond 
of  his  book.  He  lived  in  a  pretty  house, 
surrounded  by  a  pleasant  garden  filled 
with  roses  and  pinks,  and  all  kinds  of 
sweet-smelling  flowers.  Henry  had  a  piece 
of  ground  which  he  called  his  own  gar- 
den; and,  one  day,  when  he  had  been  a 
good  boy,  and  had  learned  his  lessons 
well,  his  mama  told  him  he  might  go  and 
amuse  himself  there. 

Now  nothing  pleased  Henry  more  than 


172  HENRY  MORTON. 

working  in  his  garden,  which  he  longed 
to  make  as  gay  as  possible.  So  he  took 
some  seeds  which  his  kind  aunt  Mary 
had  given  him,  and  set  about  sowing 
them.  But  the  ground  was  so  hard  that 
he  found  great  trouble  in  making  holes 
large  enough  for  his  purpose. 

"  Ah,  Master  Henry,"  said  Ralph,  the 
gardener,  who  was  passing  by  at  the  time, 
"  your  flowers  will  never  grow  well  with 
the  ground  as  hard  as  it  now  is,  Before 
you  sow  seeds,  you  ought  to  dig  it  up  well 
first,  and,  after  that,  rake  it  nice  and 
smooth;  then  the  roots  will  be  able  to 
spread,  and  your  flowers  will  grow  fine 
and  large." 

"Will  you  dig  up  the  ground  for 
me,  then?"  said  Henry,  "for,  I  want 


HENRY    M  O  R  T  O  N— Page  172. 


HENRY  MORTON.  173 

very  much  to  plant  my  seeds  this  after- 
noon." 

"  Why,  you  must  have  patience,"  replied 
Ralph,  "  if  I  am  to  do  it  for  you,  for  I 
have  my  cucumber  frames  and  mushroom 
beds,  and  all  my  tender  spring  plants  to 
cover  up  before  the  evening,  or  the  frost 
might  come  and  kill  them  all.  And  what 
would  you  do  then,  Master  Henry,  for 
salads  and  early  vegetables,  and  all  nice 
things  of  the  kind  ?" 

Henry  was  very  vexed  that  he  could 
not  get  his  bed  dug  up  that  afternoon ; 
and  he  walked  away  with  the  gardener's 
large  spade  over  his  shoulder,  to  see  if 
he  could  not  do  it  himself.  But  the  spade 
was  so  heavy  that  he  could  scarcely  carry 
it?  and,  instead  of  doing  his  garden  any 


174  HENRY  MORTON. 

good,  he  only  knocked  down  the  flowers 
he  already  had,  and  made  himself  very 
hot  and  very  tired. 

"  Oh,  mama,"  he  cried,  as  he  saw  Mrs. 
Morton  approaching,  "  I  cannot  do  any- 
thing with  this  nasty  great  spade.  I  wish 
you  would  make  me  a  present  of  a  little 
spade — one  that  I  could  use  with  ease  : 
will  you,  dear  mama  ?" 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you  would  find  a 
little  spade  very  useful,"  said  Mrs.  Mor- 
ton ;  "  in  fact,  you  can  hardly  expect  to 
succeed  in  your  gardening  without  one. 
But  still,  Henry,  there  is  something  else 
to  be  thought  of  first.  There  are  many 
little  boys  who  can  read  and  write  very 
prettily,  at  your  age  :  now,  if  you  will 
pay  a  little  more  attention  to  your  books, 


HENRY  MORTON.  175 

and  will  perfect  yourself;  in  a  month's 
time,  in  the  lessons  which  I  intend  giving 
you,  I  will  then  ask  papa  to  make  you  a 
present  of  the  spade." 

The  next  morning  Henry  sat  down  and 
began  to  learn  his  lessons  very  steadily  ; 
for  he  longed  to  see  his  seeds  in  the 
ground,  as  Aunt  Mary  told  him  they 
would  grow  into  fine  plants,  and  bear 
very  beautiful  flowers.  He  kept  on  and 
on,  day  after  day,  till  at  last  he  made  him- 
self quite  perfect  in  the  lessons  his  mama 
had  set  him.  And  when  he  came  in  to 
breakfast  one  morning,  he  found  a  long 
brown  paper  parcel  on  the  table  ;  and  on 
it  was  written  :  <  Master  Henry  Morton.7 
His  mama  told  him  he  might  open  it; 
and  there  he  found — oh!  such  a  nice 


176  HENRY  MORTON. 

spade  :  and  a  rake  and  a  hoe !  And  Henry 
ran  and  kissed  his  papa  and  mama,  and 
thanked  them  for  their  kind  present ;  and 
then  he  looked  again  at  his  treasures,  and 
jumped  about,  and  could  scarcely  contain 
himself  for  joy.  After  he  had  finished 
his  lesson  for  the  day,  he  hounded  down 
to  his  garden,  and  worked  away  as  busily 
as  a  bee.  He  dug  up  his  ground,  and 
hoed  and  raked  it,  and  planted  his  seeds. 
And  the  Spring  passed  away ;  the  Sum- 
mer came,  and  the  flowers  bloomed  ;  and 
Henry  loved  them  all  the  more,  because 
they  seemed  to  smile  upon  him,  and  say 
— "  We  are  the  reward  of  perseverance." 


AGNES   AND  HER  PETS. 


"  O  MAMA,  MAMA  !  you  never  saw  such 
funny  little  rogues  in  all  your  life !  They 
do  jump  and  frisk  and  play  about  so." 

"  Well,  but  my  dear  Agnes,"  said  Mrs. 
Mildmay,  "you  have  not  yet  told  me 
what  it  is  that  has  so  amused  you." 

"O,  mama!  it  is  old  Mrs.  Pierson's 
kittens ;  do  pray  come  and  look  at  them. 
She  has  only  one  that  she  has  not  pro- 
mised to  give  away,  and  she  says  I  may 
have  it  if  you  will  let  me;  it  is  such  a 
love  of  a  kitten ;  so  I  have  just  come  to 


178  AGNES   AND   HER  PETS. 

ask  your  leave,  and  then  I  will  run  with 
my  little  basket  and  fetch  it  home.  May 
I  not,  dear  mama  ?" 

"Gently,  gently,  Agnes,"  said  Mrs. 
Mildmay ;  "  a  kitten  is  a  very  pretty, 
amusing  little  thing;  but  how  do  you 
think  she  would  agree,  as  she  grew  up, 
with  your  other  favourites  ?  Remember, 
we  must  not  forget  old  friends,  Agnes ; 
and  I  am  afraid  that  your  canary  and 
goldfinch  would  stand  a  great  chance  of 
having  their  sweet  notes  stopped  by  the 
teeth  and  claws  of  Miss  Pussy,  unless 
great  care  be  taken  to  keep  them  safely 
out  of  her  reach/' 

"  O,  I  shall  be  quite  sure  to  take  care 
of  that,''  said  Agnes;  "and  besides, 
mama,  when  we  were  in  London  last 


AGNES   AND   HER  PETS.  179 

year,  do  you  know  I  saw  a  large  cage, 
full  of  all  sorts  of  animals  ?  There  were 
cats  and  rats,  and  rabbits,  and  dogs,  and 
birds ;  and  they  all  seemed  as  happy  and 
comfortable  together  as  possible.  So, 
surely,  my  three  pets  ought  to  agree  with 
one  another." 

"  Well,  my  dear  Agnes,  said  her 
mama,  "  I  have  no  objection  to  your 
kitten ;  in  fact,  my  reason  for  not  keeping 
one  before  was  only  on  account  of  your 
birds;  but  if  you  like  to  run  the  risk, 
go  and  fetch  home  your  new  friend. 
Only,  remember  I  have  warned  you 
beforehand  of  the  danger  of  leaving  your 
birds  within  her  reach." 

Off  started  Agnes,  and  soon  returned, 
bounding  into  the  room  with  her  pet 


180  AGNES  AND   HER  PETS. 

under  her  arm.  Tibby,  (for  that  was  the 
name  by  which  her  little  mistress  chose 
to  call  the  kitten,)  mewed  most  mourn- 
fully at  first,  at  her  separation  from  her 
mother,  and  not  ah1  the  efforts  of  Agnes 
could,  for  some  time,  induce  her  to  join 
in  a  game  at  play.  But  she  was  so 
kindly  treated,  and  so  well  fed,  that 
she  soon  began  to  make  herself  very 
comfortable.  She  would  run  after  a  ball 
of  thread  which  Agnes  threw  before 
her,  seize  it  in  her  paws,  and  roll 
over  and  over  with  it,  till  Agnes  w-as 
convulsed  with  laughter  at  her  funny 
tricks.  Still  the  old  pets,  the  canary  and 
goldfinch,  were  not  forgotten;  their 
cages  were  cleaned,  and  they  were  fed 
with  as  much  care  and  attention  as  ever," 


AGNES   AND  HER  PETS.  181 

"I  have  been  thinking/'  said  Agnes, 
one  day,  "  what  a  good  thing  it  would 
be,  if  I  could  make  my  three  favourites 
agree  well  together,  so  that  I  might  not 
be  afraid  of  Tibby  attacking  the  birds  in 
my  absence.  Now,  I  have  thought  of  a 
nice  plan.  I  remember  once,  when  I 
was  a  naughty  girl,  that  mama  would  not 
let  me  have  my  breakfast  till  I  had  pro- 
mised to  behave  myself  better  in  future. 
Now,  I  will  do  just  the  same  with  you, 
Miss  Tibby,  I  will  not  give  you  your 
breakfast  quite  so  early  this  morning.'7 
But  it  was  soon  found  that  hunger 
only  increased  Tibby's  inclinations  for 
her  natural  prey.  When  an  hour  or  two 
had  passed  beyond  her  usual  feeding 
time,  she  began  to  prowl  about  in  search 


182  AGNES  AND   HER  PETS. 

of  something  with  which  to  satisfy  her 
appetite;  and  when  she  saw  the  birds, 
her  eyes  glistened,  and  she  crouched 
down  and  looked  so  fierce,  that  Agnes 
feared  every  moment,  she  would  spring 
at  them,  in  spite  of  her  protecting  pre- 
sence. She  hastened,  therefore,  to  supply 
Tibby  with  her  accustomed  meal.  Re- 
solved not  to  repeat  so  dangerous  an 
experiment  a  second  time,  but  yet  not 
altogether  discouraged  by  her  first  failure, 
Agnes  soon  thought  of  another  plan. 
She  tried,  by  giving  her  as  much  as  she 
could  eat,  to  make  the  cat  more  amiable 
with  her  companions.  This  measure 
proved  much  more  successful  than  the 
last ;  but  though  Tibby  did  not  look  quite 
as  eagerly  after  the  birds  yet  she  still 


AGNES   AND   HER  PETS.  183 

cast  such  a  longing  eye  upon  them, 
that  Agnes  would  have  been  afraid  to 
leave  them  for  a  moment  within  her 
reach. 

As  Tibby  grew  up,  she  began  to  leave 
off  many  of  her  pretty  playful  ways. 
When  Agnes  threw  her  a  ball  to  play 
with,  she  no  longer  ran  frisking  after  it 
as  formerly.  She  seemed  to  think  that 
such  gambols  were  all  very  well  for  a 
kitten,  but  not  fit  for  a  cat  of  her  age 
and  experience ;  so  she  let  the  ball  roh1 
on,  and  would  not  condescend  to  take 
the  slightest  notice  of  it,  but  sat  staring 
and  winking  thoughtfully  at  the  fire, 
like  a  grave  steady  cat  as  she  was,  only 
now  and  then  she  would  suffer  her  eyes 
to  wander  to  the  cages,  as  if  thinking 


184  AGNES  AND   HER  PETS. 

what  a  nice  little  meal  she  could  make 
from  their  contents. 

Agnes  was  very  careful  not  to  let  her 
have  an  opportunity  by  always  hanging 
them  out  of  her  reach;  and  Tibby,  for 
some  time,  looked  and  longed  in  vain- 
At  last,  on  one  unfortunate  day,  as  Agnes 
was  sitting  poring  over  her  lessons,  ^he 
suddenly  heard  a  carriage  draw  up  to  the 
door,  and,  looking  up  from  her  book,  saw 
her  cousin,  Mary  Lee,  nodding  and  kiss- 
ing her  hand  to  her  through  the  window. 

Mary  and  Agnes  were  about  the  same 
age,  and  very  fond  of  each  other;  but 
as  the  distance  was  great  between  their 
respective  houses,  they  were  not  able  to 
meet  very  often ;  and  a  great  treat  it  was 
to  both  the  little  girls  whenever  Mr.  Lee 


A  G  X  I-:  S  AND   HER  PET  S— PaSc  185. 


AGNES   AND   HER  PETS.  185 

brought  his  daughter  Mary  to  spend  a 
day  with  Agnes.  Forgetful  now  of  every- 
thing else,  in  her  joy  at  seeing  her  cousin, 
Agnes  ran  to  welcome  her,  leaving  Tibby 
apparently  enjoying  a  comfortable  doze 
on  the  hearth-rug.  The  temptation  was 
too  strong  to  be  resisted ;  and  the  cat  lost 
no  time  in  springing  at  her  victims. 
The  birds  fluttered  wildly  about  the 
cage ;  dashing  themselves  into  the  very 
clutches  of  their  fierce  foe ;  and  Agnes 
returned  but  in  time  to  see  the  mangled 
remains  of  one  unhappy  songster  strew- 
ing the  carpet,  while  Tibby,  with  the 
other  in  her  mouth,  stole  swiftly  from 
the  room. 

"  Oh,  my  poor  little  birds,"  cried  Agnes 
bursting  into  tears,  "  would  nothing  satisfy 


186  AGNES  AND   HER  PETS. 

that  cruel  cat  but  taking1  your  innocent 
lives  ?  I  shall  never  more  hear  your  cheer- 
ing songs :  and  to  take  you  both  too ! 
O  poor  little  goldfinch!  you  were  so 
tame  you  would  feed  out  of  my  hand — 
and  my  little  canary,  that  would  always 
chirp,  and  welcome  me  whenever  I  came 
into  the  room,  and  that  had  so  many 
pretty  ways !" 

Poor  Agnes,  how  sorry  she  was !  Her 
cousin,  Mary,  did  her  best  to  console  her, 
and  good-naturedly  said  that,  if  her  aunt 
would  give  her  leave,  she  would  give 
Agnes  one  of  the  two  pretty  birds  she 
had  at  home,  as  she  should  be  quite  con- 
tented with  one  only.  Agnes:s  mama, 
however,  said  she  could  not  permit  this, 
because  Tibby  would  still  be  with  them, 


AGNES  AND  HER  PETS.          187 

and  she  did  not  like  to  expose  another 
bird  to  the  fate  that  had  befallen  the 
poor  canary  and  goldfinch. 

Agnes  had  nothing  to  plead  against 
this  decree.  She  remembered  her  mama's 
warning,  and  heartily  repented  not  having 
given  greater  heed  to  it  Tibby  was  now 
her  only  remaining  pet,  and  she  was  no 
longer  any  source  of  amusement,  since 
she  had  ceased  to  be  a  lively  playful  kit- 
ten; besides,  Agnes  thought  she  would, 
in  future,  always  put  her  in  mind  of  the 
cruel  death  inflicted  on  her  sweet  little 
songsters. 


THE  SISTERS. 


"An,  Emma,"  cried  Laura  Thornton, 
as  she  opened  the  door  of  a  room  where 
her  sister  was  diligently  pursuing  her 
morning  studies,  "  here  you  are  still  busy 
with  your  books  and  exercises.  I  have 
been  running  about  the  garden  till  I  grew 
tired  of  being  alone,  and  I  thought  you 
would  surely  have  prepared  your  -lessons 
by  this  time ;  but  I  see  by  your  business- 
looking  face  that  you  are  not  yet  ready  to 
come  out  with  me." 


THE   SISTERS.  189 

"Indeed,  sister/7  replied  Emma,  smi- 
lingly, "I  have  got  through  the  greater 
part  of  my  lessons — my  French  exercises 
will  occupy  only  another  half-hour.  But, 
dear  Laura,  when  do  you  intend  to  set 
about  your  own  ?" 

"  I  have  not  even  thought  about  them 
yet,  Emma,"  replied  Laura,  a  little  impa- 
tiently, "  and  I  wonder  how  you  can  pore 
over  your  books  on  this  lovely  May 
morning,  when  the  garden  looks  so  in- 
viting. See,  what  a  bright  sun,  and  what 
a  beautiful  clear  blue  sky !  I  assure  you 
the  lawn  is  quite  dry  to-day — now  do 
come  out  just  for  ten  minutes,  and  have 
a  game  with  me  ait  battledore  and  shuttle- 
cock." 

"  As  soon  as  I  have  finished  my  les- 


190  THE   SISTERS. 

sons,  dear  sister;'  still  said  Emma.  "  I 
enjoyed  my  walk  before  breakfast  very 
much,  but  really  I  do  not  enjoy  playing 
about  the  garden  all  the  day  long.  Mama 
often  tells  us  that  a  little  work  makes 
play  ten  times  more  pleasant,  and  I  am 
sure  I  find  it  so.  Do  you  not  remember 
that,  by  the  time  I  was  ready  to  go  out 
with  you  yesterday,  you  were  quite  tired, 
and  said  you  did  not  know  how  it  was 
that  amusement  always  seemed  to  give 
me  more  pleasure  than  you,  though  I  was 
less  eager  to  join  in  it" 

Finding  her  sister  was  not  to  be  per- 
suaded to  quit  her  studies,  Laura  wisely 
determined,  instead  of  interrupting  them 
any  longer,  to  commence  her  own,  and 
with  a  rather  disconsolate  air  drew  a  chair 


THE    SISTERS.  191 

to  the  opposite  side  of  the  table  at  which 
Emma  was  seated. 

A  very  pleasant  room  was  the  little 
study  which  was  always  entered  so 
reluctantly  by  Laura  Thornton.  Mrs. 
Thornton's  residence  was  not  above  a 
mile  or  two  distant  from  London,  and  the 
front  of  the  house  looked  towards  a  dusty 
road  on  which  coaches,  carts  and  car- 
riages of  all  kinds  were  continually  pass- 
ing. At  the  back,  however,  the  prospect 
was  different.  There,  there  was  a  garden 
prettily  laid  out  and  appearing  larger 
than  it  really  was,  from  the  unsightly 
brick  walls  being  thickly  covered  with 
ivy;  a  smooth  verdant  lawn  extended 
down  the  centre,  diversified  with  flower- 
beds and  evergreen  shrubs.  On  this 


192  THE   SISTERS. 

lawn  opened  the  French  windows  of  the 
little  room  which  Mrs.  Thornton  allowed 
Laura  and  Emma  to  appropriate  for  their 
morning  studies,  and  in  which  she  hoped 
a  portion  of  each  day  would  be  usefully 
and  pleasantly  employed. 

Emma,  before  she  commenced  her 
studies,  always  put  fresh  flowers  in  the 
pretty  china  vase  which  ornamented  the 
centre  of  their  little  table :  this  morning 
she  had  gathered  a  large  bunch  of  white 
and  blue  violets,  and  they  filled  the 
apartment  with  a  delicious  fragrance. 
Laura  had  no  sooner  spread  her  books 
before  her  than  she  discovered  that  this 
bouquet  of  violets  would  be  wonderfully 
improved  by  the  addition  of  some  ane- 
mones and  garden-primroses.  "  I  will 


THE   SISTERS.  193 

gather  a  few  and  return  to  my  lessons  in 
two  minutes,"  she  said.  The  anemones 
and  primroses  were  added;.  Emma  was 
called  upon  to  admire  them ;  and  Laura 
at  last  opened  her  books  and  took  up  her 
pen.  The  morning  was  now  far  ad- 
vanced, and  Emma's  studies  being  just 
finished,  Laura  felt  doubly  impatient  to 
conclude  hers. 

"Do  not  hurry,  Laura,*'  said  Emma, 
good-naturedly,  "  or  you  will  never  do 
your  lessons  well.  I  shall  not  go  out  till 
you,  too,  are  ready.  I  will  sit  by  the 
window,  and  amuse  myself  with  this 
story-book." 

"Thank  you,  Emma,"  said  Laura, 
"and  pray  put  your  translation  out  of 
my  reach,  for  while  it  lies  so  temptingly 
13 


194  THE   SISTERS. 

before  me,  I  can  scarcely  help  copying  it, 
instead  of  hqnting  out  the  words  in  the 
dictionary:' 

In  spite  of  Emma's  exhortation,  Laura 
did  hurry  through  her  studies  with  far 
too  little  attention.  Her  exercises  were 
written  very  incorrectly,  and  her  lessons 
learned  very  imperfectly.  She  felt  no 
satisfaction  wrhen  her  troublesome  tasks, 
as  she  called  them  were  concluded,  for 
she  had  conquered  no  difficulties,  and 
exercised  no  perseverance. 

Mrs.  Thornton  generally  joined  her 
daughters  about  twelve  o'clock,  and  it  was 
very  seldom  that  Emma's  lessons  were 
not  in  readiness  for  her  mother's  inspec- 
tion. "  Her  cheerful  smile  tells  me  that 
she  has  been  diligent  this  morning;' 


THE   SISTERS.  195 

thought  Mrs.  Thornton,  as  she  entered 
the  little  study — and  she  guessed  rightly. 
Emma  received  the  affectionate  praise 
her  attention  to  her  mama's  instruction 
merited,  and  which  always  gave  her  so 
much  pleasure.  As  to  poor  Laura,  the 
gravity,  which  had  displeased  her  in 
Emma's  countenance  in  the  earlier  part 
of  the  morning  seemed  transferred  to 
her  own,  when  her  mama's  attention  was 
turned  to  her  performances. 

"How  is  this,  Laura,  again,  to-day 
your  lessons  are  not  learned  ?"  said  Mrs. 
Thornton.  "  I  shall  begin  to  grow  weary 
of  instructing  my  little  girl,  if  she  con- 
tinues so  indolent  and  careless." 

"  Oh,  dear  mama,"  said  Laura,  "  there 
can  be  no  occasion  to  keep  learn,  learn, 


196  THE   SISTERS. 

all  day.  I  think  we  might  as  well  be 
quite  poor  persons,  if  we  are  to  keep 
working  so  hard  all  our  lives." 

"  And  how  can  you,  my  dear,  be  sure 
that  your  parents  will  always  be  as  rich 
as  they  now  are  ?"  said  Mrs.  Thornton. 
"  Many  who  have  thought  as  heedlessly 
as  you  nbw  do,  and  wasted  valuable 
time  in  trifling  pursuits,  would,  in  after- 
life, gladly  have  recalled  the  hours  they 
unprofitably  passed  in  youth.  The  for- 
mer possessors  of  this  very  house  \vere 
a  sad  example  of  the  truth  of  what  I 
tell  you. 

"  Mr.  Nugent  was  a  West  India  mer- 
chant of  immense  wealth  at  the  time  he 
first  came  to  reside  in  this  neighbour- 
hood. He  had  two  daughters,  Emily  and 


TiIE   SISTERS.  197 

Lousia,  who  were  about  my  age;  and 
as  our  families  visited,  we  soon  became 
very  intimate  friends.  They  were  both 
very  lively,  pleasant  girls,  and  were 
brought  up  in  all  the  comfort  and  luxury 
their  father's  great  wealth  could  com- 
mand. They  had  servants  to  wait  upon 
them,  carriages  for  their  use  whenever 
they  required  them ;  and  they  had  only 
to  express  a  wish  to  their  fond  and  in- 
dulgent parents,  and,  if  possible,  it  was 
sure  to  be  gratified.  With  all  the  notice 
taken  of  them,  you  may  be  sure  they 
stood  a  fair  chance  of  being  spoiled.  Mrs. 
Nugent  used  to  lament  the  trouble  that 
her  dear  girls  were  put  to  in  their  in- 
struction; for,  with  all  her  riches,  she 
knew  that  patience  and  perseverance 


198  THE   SISTERS, 

were  the  oi\]y  roads  to  learning,  and  she 
did  not  wish  that  her  daughters  should 
be  inferior  in  that  respect  to  those  of 
their  own  rank  in  life. 

"  Emily,  the  elder  of  my  two  friends> 
was  a  pretty,  lively  girl,  and  decidedly 
the  quicker  of  the  two.  She  could  play 
a  little — sing  a  little;  then  she  under- 
stood a  little  of  drawing,  and  a  very 
little  of  French  and  Italian  ;  in  fact,  a 
little  of  almost  everything,  but  nothing 
well ;  for.  with  all  her  quickness,  she  had 
not  the  steadiness  and  perseverance  of 
her  younger  sister.  Louisa  could  not 
boast  so  many  accomplishments,  but  what 
she  undertook,  she  did  perfectly. 

"  I  was  sitting  with  them  one  day  when 
they  were  at  their  studies.  Emily  had 


THE    SISTERS.  199 

just  thrown  down  her  books,  impatient 
of  the  time  it  took  her  to  accomplish  her 
lessons.  Louisa  was  steadily  pursuing 
hers,  and  urging  her  sister  to  greater 
application,  when  she  made  nearly  the 
same  remark  that  you  did  just  now,  my 
dear  Laura.  But  time  proved  which  had 
pursued  the  wiser  course. 

"  A  sudden  and  quite  unlooked-for 
change  in  Indian  affairs,  and  the  failure 
of  a  house  in  which  he  W7as  largely  in- 
terested, completely  involved  the  unfor- 
tunate Mr.  Nugent.  He  was  obliged 
to  part  with  every  article  of  luxury,  to 
satisfy  the  demands  of  his  creditors ;  and 
with  but  a  very  small  portion  of  his  once 
extensive  means,  was  compelled  to  retire 
to  a  distant  part  of  the  country. 


200  THE   SISTERS. 

"  Now  it  was  that  Louisa  was  able  to 
turn  her  acquirements  to  the  best  ad- 
vantage— to  the  support  and  comfort  of 
her  family.  With  her  knowledge  and 
accomplishments,  she  had  no  difficulty 
in  obtaining  an  engagement  as  a  gover 
ness ;  and  I  question  if,  at  any  period  of 
her  life,  she  felt  happier  than  when  she 
brought  to  her  parents  the  first  fruits  of 
her  industry." 

"And  what  did  Emily  do,  mama?" 
said  Laura. 

"  She  now,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton,  "  saw 
the  folly  of  her  former  idleness.  She 
could  not  use  the  same  means  as  her 
sister  had  done ;  for,  knowing  only  a  little 
of  many  things,  she  was  more  suited 
for  a  pupil  than  a  preceptress.  She  was 


THE   SISTERS.  201 

still  young,  however;  and,  by  diligent 
application,  she  hoped  in  time  to  be  able 
to  add  her  portion  to  the  support  of  her 
family. 

"Before  that  period  arrived,  I  am 
happy  to  say,  that,  through  the  kind 
assistance  of  some  of  Mr.  Nugent's 
friends,  he  was  enabled  to  regain  a  suffi- 
cient portion  of  his  fortune  to  place  his 
family,  if  not  in  their  former  affluence, 
at  all  events,  above  the  frowns  of  the 
world. 

•  "  Independent  of  such  considerations 
as  these,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton,  "the 
amusement  and  pleasure  always  result- 
ing from  a  well-stored  mind,  are  of 
themselves  sufficient  inducements  to 
perseverance." 


202  THE   SISTERS. 

Laura  said  no  farther  word  upon  the 
matter;  but  the  manner  in  which  she 
applied  herself  to  her  studies  on  the 
following  day,  offered  the  best  proof 
possible  that  she  was  convinced  of  the 
truth  of  her  mama's  reasoning. 


THE    END. 


And  now,  my  dear  young  friends,  I  must  bid  you 
farewell ;  but  let  us  hope,  that  it  may  only  be  for  a 
btief  period  ;  for  if  the  perusal  of  my  little  tales  has 
contributed  to  your  happiness  and  amusement,  we 
may,  probably,  again  meet  to  pass  together  more 
HAPPY  HOURS 

M.  C 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-25m-8,'46  (9852) 444 


C42h     Cherwell  - i 

Happy  hours. 


AA    000475238    2 


PZ6 
C42h 


